Her Own Manner of Devotion
by ElouiseBates
Summary: Being the letters of Miss Cassandra Bertram to her cousin, Mr. James Price, regarding the events surrounding the advent of Mansfield's new curate and his sister, Mr. and Miss Fulke.
1. Chapter 1

7 September, 1830

Mansfield Parsonage

_Dear Jamie,_

I take pen in hand to inform you that my birthday festivities yesterday were a splendid success. So, at least, my Aunt Bertram informs me. I found the entire day dreadfully boring, though it sounds terribly ungrateful in me to say so, when so many people did their best to make it special.

My idea of an ideal birthday would be to have you home from Oxford for the day, and the two of us (and Richard, I suppose, if he insisted) go fishing together, as we did in the old days, with a picnic lunch of cold meats and lemonade to sustain us when we were hungry, followed by star-gazing on the lawn. Does not that sound splendid?

Instead, I was forced to wear a fragile white muslin gown, above which my hair seemed redder than ever, and my skin dead-white in comparison, and sit in an uncomfortable chair at Mansfield Park, thanking dozens of young men and women for their appearance at my birthday party (most of whom I do not know, and do not wish to know), and listen to my aunts complain.

Aunt Bertram thought it dreadfully risky to have an outdoor picnic in September, and wouldn't we rather move inside? She was sure it was going to rain, or turn cold, or bugs were going to get into the food, or a table was going to overturn, or one of the young ladies would tear her dress while dancing, or something dreadful. I stopped listening after a while.

My other aunt, Mrs. Rushworth that was (so terribly difficult knowing what to call her! Do I say Mrs. Rushworth or Miss Bertram? Addressing her to her face I simply call her "Aunt", but that does not work when speaking of her to others. Perhaps that is why Papa never speaks to her or of her.), complained that for _her_ part, she was unbearably hot, but nobody ever minded _her_, she was sneered at by everybody, and if her dear Aunt Norris hadn't died, she would never have come back to Mansfield at all.

To which Richard, who was sitting on my other side at the moment, muttered, "I am sure we wish you hadn't!" which was quite shockingly rude, of course, but understandable, and thankfully my aunt did not hear him.

I feel sorry for Aunt Maria (there! Improper though it may be to use her first name, she has been improper enough that I shall not flinch). She behaved very badly with that wicked Mr. Crawford, to be sure, but I think she has suffered enough for it. Her face is very haggard, and her once stately figure quite slovenly. Her voice is querulous and grating, poor thing (I do like a nice voice, as you know, Jamie dear—I am so thankful yours is pleasant) and she appears altogether miserable.

It would be quite difficult to throw everything away in a burst of grand passion, only to have it end with creeping back to your elder brother after your father's death, begging for a place to live! I think it very charitable of my uncle, Sir Thomas, to take her in, but I think it would be a far kinder thing if he and Aunt Bertram did not mention it _quite_ so frequently in front of Aunt Maria.

Papa, of course, never speaks to her, and while I would never wish to say anything bad about Papa, and I am sure it is quite the moral thing to do, it does not seem very loving. If _you_ did something dreadful, Jamie, I would never stop talking to you, and you are but my cousin, and not even my brother!

But there—perhaps it would be harder if you _were_ my brother, and I felt you disgraced the family name. And after all, Papa is a wise and kindly clergyman, and I only his unruly seventeen year old daughter—I am sure I am in no condition to judge.

Mama, I believe, would be kind to Aunt Maria if she did not think it disloyal to Papa, and if Aunt Maria would permit it, but my aunt really seems to hold Mama responsible for Mr. C. leaving her, and so glares _hatefully_ at her every time Mama comes near.

Our Aunt de Lacey takes great umbrage at that, and would say something quite harsh to Aunt M. if Mama did not plead with her to be gracious. Aunt de L. and I share much more than our red hair—we both have very hasty tempers, and carry our family loyalty rather too far. Mama is always telling me I need to practice more self-control, especially as I am a young lady now, and soon to be _out_.

I am thankful to say that my Aunt and Uncle Yates were not able to come, Uncle being _quite_ busy with work, and Aunt doing something frivolous with darling Althea. Aunt Yates did send a note, however, stating that she would have sent me a silk dress but that she was sure I would tear it or stain it, so she gave it to Thea instead, as Thea is _such_ a proper lady!

Despite my dislike of fine frocks, I do rather regret the silk gown. I love silk—it is so glistening and smooth and cool—and I feel sure I could be proper if I wore silk.

Papa, however, though he makes a comfortable living for all our needs, does not make enough to justify foolish fripperies, especially when there are so many poor people we can help with any extra halfpennies we might have, so Aunt Yates was my last hope.

Aunt de L., of course, is more than wealthy enough to buy me a closet full of silk dresses, but all of her money goes to that odious Isabella Huston, Aunt's "protégée." She was there at my party, of course, condescending to me with her usual smug superiority, and turning the heads of every male person there, including Richard, who ought to know better. How I hate her! I know that is a shocking sentiment to come from a clergyman's daughter, but I can have no secrets from you, Jamie dear.

What if Isabella does have fine eyes and a lovely figure? What if she can giggle and make pretty speeches? Disregarding the lowness of her birth, which _as_ a clergyman's daughter I am of course too well-bred to throw in her face, she does not have an original idea in her brain. She thinks of nothing but fashions and flirtations, and I can carry on an intelligent conversation far better than she ever could.

People, however, look at her and see a well-dressed, pretty young woman who smiles and simpers and says what is proper, and they look at me and see a red-headed minx with wicked green eyes, a sharp tongue, and an unfeminine interest in world affairs.

I do think it entirely unfair that women are not allowed at Oxford. When I listen to Richard boast about his exploits there, I get in such a rage that he doesn't care about his education and is trying to get through with as little effort as possible. Whereas I, who would adore an education, am limited by my sex to stupid tea parties and embroideries, and doomed to either be an old maid or end my days tending babies and gossiping about servants!

At least you understand me, Jamie, and share with me everything you're learning. Speaking of which, what is the political situation lately? I asked Richard, but he just patted my head and called me an amusing child. Really, and he is only three years older than I, the prig. I don't care if he will be Sir Richard someday, he is by far the most irritating young man I know!

Isn't it odd to think about how much has changed from when we were all children? I remember right after your poor dear mama died, when you came to stay with us because your papa had to go back to sea, how much fun the three of us had. Richard and I used to fight constantly, but you were a steadying influence on me, and a calming influence on him, since he hated to admit that a naval captain's son could be better bred than a baronet's heir.

And then how he and I used to plague poor Thea when they would visit, and you would take pity on her and spend hours listening to her prattle on about nothing, while Richard and I, selfish little beasts that we were, would run away and sail boats in the stream.

And now Richard patronizes me, and you let me pour out my deepest thoughts to you. And I suppose, if you saw Thea, you would still be polite to her, as well! Really, Jamie, sometimes I think you are too good to be quite human. You make me ashamed of my temper and mischievous ways and all my uncharitable thoughts.

I know that I am really a great worry to Mama and Papa. They are both so good—_really_ good, truly—and I am so bad. They do not understand how their training could go so awry! It was one thing, when I was twelve, to declare that I liked playing soldiers better than dolls, and wanted to sit in Parliament when I grew up, but it is a bit more shocking now when I say that I do not care about marriage and wish I could work like a man does to earn my own living.

Aunt Bertram warns me that no man will ever want to marry a strong-minded woman. Well, I do not want to marry a weak-livered man, so I don't regret my lost beaux!

I do not think I am all bad, though. I do care very deeply for people. Only, I tend to see things from such a human perspective. Papa talks a great deal about right and wrong, and teaching people morals by our example—and he is so _very_ moral. Mama is gentler, but she is so pure herself that she cannot understand people who do wrong things.

Now I, when I hear about Old Simon robbing Miss Lofton's henhouse, recognize that it was wrong, but instead of feeling horror, like Mama, and sternly talking to him about the perils of thieving, like Papa, I think about his poor starving children, and how desperate he must have been to do such a wicked thing, and that really, one should not punish him, because he wouldn't have done it had he had any other choice.

Really, I must be quite hopeless.

This is an unpardonably long letter, Jamie dear. All I really wanted to tell you was about my boring birthday festivities! Suffice to say the day ended with a dance, in which I did not participate, because Richard was supposed to ask me, and instead asked the odious Isabella! and then none of the other young men asked me, because _they_ did not want to ask the girl who was slighted by her own _cousin_, the heir to Mansfield Park.

So I sat with Mama and my three aunts and watched the dance. I wished you were there, Jamie. We could have slipped away from everybody and danced one of your papa's hornpipes—you remember the one he taught us on his last leave? It would have been quite shocking and disgraceful, but so lovely—much lovelier than all the stupid bowing and crossing and stepping of the dances today.

And then everyone went home, and I thanked Sir Thomas and Aunt Bertram very prettily for a lovely day, shook hands with the odious Isabella, stuck my tongue out at Richard, and came home to sleep off the unaccustomed luxury.

Really, I would rather have spent the day at Oxford with you, studying the law!

Do write soon, and tell me all the news,

_Your loving cousin,_

_Cass. _


	2. Chapter 2

9 September, 1830

Mansfield Parsonage

_Dear Jamie,_

What do you think? Papa is getting a new curate! Mr. Welsham finally received his living this summer, you know, and so Papa has been curate-less ever since. This Mr. Fulke is single (which I am sure will increase the religious feelings in most of the young ladies in the parish), and his sister comes with him to keep house. I confess I am far more interested in Miss Fulke than Mr. Fulke. I have seen many curates come and go in my seventeen years, but very few young ladies. It is my hope that Miss Fulke will prove to be a congenial creature—imagine my horror if she should be as odious as Isabella, or as insipid as Thea!

Papa says he has met Miss Fulke, and she seems a sweet, ladylike girl. _That_ could mean anything.

Apparently Mr. Fulke's grandfather was once a wealthy gentleman in Scotland. His son squandered the estate, forcing _his_ son, our curate, into earning his own living. He has the hope of an old family living, which in a few years might be enough to support him and his sister, but for now must be content with Papa's curacy. The spendthrift Mr. Fulke was a friend of Sir Thomas', which does not surprise me, considering how poorly my uncle behaved before that dreadful illness the same year Aunt Maria ran off and Aunt Yates eloped. What a horrible year that must have been! I am very glad I was not alive at such a time.

Anyway, when Sir Thomas heard about Mr. and Miss F., he recommended them to Papa, and so they will be arriving next week.

How do I know all this? Through Aunt Bertram, of course, who knows every detail of everyone's life, and the more scandalous the better. Aunt M. wonders that we all could show such interest in a curate, but when one's circle of acquaintances is so small, any new face is interesting.

And should Mr. F. prove to be handsome, as well as single, I believe even Aunt M. will start to take an interest in church!

_As ever_,

_Cass._


	3. Chapter 3

15 September, 1830

Mansfield Parsonage

_Dear Jamie,_

The Fulkes have been here less than a week, and already much has changed!

It is as I feared—not only is Mr. Fulke single, he is young and very handsome. Miss Chatsworth sighed to me that he has such a dark, melancholy face—she is sure he is suffering from a broken heart.

I suspect Miss Chatsworth would like to try her hand at healing said heart!

Mr. Fulke does appear very grave, but I believe it is due more to his taking his duties very seriously than suffering the pangs of disappointed love. He has an irrepressible twinkle in his eye, even at his most serious, that to me indicate a naturally lively nature facing life's hardships bravely.

No, dear Jamie, I am not in love with Mr. Fulke. For one thing, he barely noticed me when we had him and his sister over for dinner. He was very polite to Mama, but spoke, I believe less than two words to me! Of course, I am not _out_, so that may have been why, but still! I do not care to be ignored.

For another, I have noticed that falling in love seems to make people do the silliest things. This seems to be unavoidable—I believe there is some direct connection between losing one's heart and one's head—and as I have no desire to ever lose the ability to think rationally, I am determined to never fall in love.

Now, as for Miss Fulke, I am not at all sure what to make of her. She is such a little thing; she makes me feel quite gawky and awkward. Not deliberately, as Isabella (odious thing) does, but simply because she is so neat and simple and dainty. I feel sure, looking at her, that she has never torn her dress climbing a tree, or dirtied her stockings playing in the stream, or lost her hair ribbon because she used it to mark her place in a book.

Had I grown up in Scotland, I am sure that I should have run wild over the heath and crags. Papa says I am wild enough here!

Yet I do not dislike Miss Fulke. She is not insipid, as I had feared. She is simply very quiet. She seems intelligent, though; she listened to the conversation between her brother and Papa intently, and not at all as though the theological matters they discussed were beyond her ken. I wonder if her brother talks about such things with her when they are alone?

Perhaps their relationship is similar to ours, Jamie dear—he receives the official learning, but she learns from him and they help each other along.

I am speculating, I know—but I want so desperately to like Miss Fulke that I am grasping at anything to imagine her congenial to myself. I've never had a close friend (besides you, naturally), and now that you are gone, I find myself _bored_ and—I hate to confess it, but it is true—lonely.

None of the girls around here are interested in anything that interests me, and it is impossible to be friendly to a young man without gaining the reputation of a flirt. Besides, the young men (except you) don't want to talk to a girl with brains—they only want her to be interested in _them_.

Thank goodness I can write letters to you, Jamie! I should go mad otherwise.

Speaking of which, thank you for your last letter. The king seems to making a conscious effort to endear himself to the people—I hope his care for them is genuine, and not a ploy to gain popularity.

_Write soon,_

_Cass._


	4. Chapter 4

21 September, 1830

Mansfield Parsonage

_My dear Jamie,_

Thank you so much for your last letter; it is quite shocking how out of things one gets in the country. I am very glad that Parliament has been re-formed, and I do hope that we can now push through some reform. You mention that Mr. Wilberforce approves of the new Parliament; do you think it likely that the slave trade will now be abolished? For myself, I devoutly hope this is so. I shudder to think of the way we English oppress people of other races—simply because of our nationality! Do not think me terribly unpatriotic, Jamie dear, if I confess to you that I do not see why being English automatically makes us better than being—say, French, or Spanish, or even Indian or African, or maybe even American (though of course most Americans appear to me to be quite vulgar, but perhaps they cannot help themselves, living in such a wild land, poor things).

I believe what makes us superior or inferior is inside of us—how we think, and act toward others, and how much we obey the law of God. Now, someone odious like Isabella is far worse than a humble slave who truly loves his family and practices his religion faithfully. And I know that I am a very faulty person in comparison to Anna, Aunt Yates' cook, who is so filled with love and kindness that she is _almost_ as good as my mother! What matters a person's nationality in contrast with how he or she acts?

I know these are shocking sentiments. Not even Papa, as much as he abhors the slave trade, goes so far as to say such things. I don't even know where these thoughts come from, except that as I read my Bible and history books—and the more I learn about the world as I grow—they just seem obvious to me.

Mr. Wilberforce, though, would not approve of my thoughts, either, as I understand he has very proper ideas about women's places. Papa is always torn when speaking of Mr. Wilberforce—he so thoroughly endorses the idea of reform, and trueness of religion, and women remaining in their proper sphere (one reason why I am so worrisome to him, I fear), yet he very much disapproves of Mr. Wilberforce's nonconformist ways.

Papa believes that nonconformists form a very grave danger to the church—that most are lazy, irreverent people who insist that they know better than the church. He thinks that they attract uneducated people, who find it far too easy to be caught up in emotionalism and "spirituality" without it meaning anything true.

I am not sure what I think on such matters. I don't know any nonconformists personally, so I daresay I am not properly equipped to judge.

This is a terribly solemn letter, Jamie. Will it lighten it if I tell you that yesterday evening my aunt, the esteemed Lady Bertram, held a dinner party for six of her most intimate family and friends, and that Mama gave me a new frock for the occasion? It is pale green, just the right colour for my complexion, and made in the very latest style as reported by Aunt de Lacey—with ridiculously enormous _gigot_ sleeves and a full skirt, over which, naturally, I tripped as I entered the dining room with everyone staring at me.

It is a pity dress styles are so hideously ugly right now. I wish I had been young when Mama was—when simplicity and neatness were fashionable.

No, I don't believe I do! Women's roles were even more restricted then than they are now.

Mama allowed me to loop my braids over my ears and up into a topknot. I felt perfectly ridiculous, with my ears sticking out from my head and my sleeves bigger than my body, but Aunt Bertram said I looked quite nice, so apparently I was fashionable.

I wish I could wear trousers, though cravats are a bother. Don't you think trousers would suit me admirably, Jamie dear?

Mr. and Miss Fulke were invited to the dinner party, but they declined. Aunt Maria thinks they are positively proud, but Mama, more charitable by far, says that once they have had more time to settle in, they will likely start accepting more invitations.

I do wish I saw Miss Fulke more than for a brief "hello" on Sundays. I still can't make her out—and it irks me. I like to know people so I can exercise my wit at their flaws and admire their finer qualities.

As you know all too well, Jamie, I am not a very amiable person—but no one can say I am dishonest!

There is little point in trying to appear better than I am to you, though, as you know me too well already. You always could see through any little duplicities I attempted—and I shall never forget the horror-stricken look you gave me the one time I told Papa an outright lie. It shook me to my core, and I have never lied since. I would not grieve you so again for the world, my dear cousin.

Besides, you are quite right. Of all sins, lying is one of the worst—and the one most accepted in our society. Oh, perhaps the nonconformists are right after all—the church does not seem to be doing much to encourage people to practice a truer religion!

Thank you again for your delightful and informative letter; it was much preferable to Richard's scrawl, in which he only told me how he quizzed one of his professors, and threw a party which ended in five of his friends being written up, and wasn't it all good fun. I sometimes cannot believe that you and he are the same age and at the same school.

_Yours very affectionately,_

_Cass._


	5. Chapter 5

5 October, 1830

Mansfield Parsonage

_Dear Jamie,_

I don't believe you can be a properly constructed young man any more than I am a proper young lady. Why, you didn't express one bit of shock over my suggestion of trousers! Although I am glad you agree with me that they would be quite practical. Why is it that men and women must dress so very differently? Oh, I know the Scriptures state very clearly that women must not try to be men, but surely there must be some compromise—trousers for women that are cut differently from men's, perhaps, or with a long tunic over the top so as to preserve modesty. And after all, as we women must always have our hair long (as it is our "crowning glory"), and men must wear theirs short, surely nobody could mistake women and men for each other, even if we did dress similar.

I used to wish I _could_ cut my hair short like you and Richard. It was always coming loose from my plaits and flying in my face. Besides, Thea used to compare its colour to hers, with my red always coming up short to her "honey-coloured tresses."

Now, though, I am quite proud of my crimson mane. Of course, it has darkened a bit, which is pleasant, but it also helps that Aunt de Lacey, who is well-known as one of the most fashionable members of the _ton_, has red hair.

So, although Papa may deplore my unladylike ways, he no longer has to worry over coming in to the parlour to find me standing before the mirror with a pair of shears, determined to rid myself of my locks once and for all! Oh, he was wild then. He has never laid an ungentle hand on me, as you know, but I do believe he came rather close that day. As it was, I would have preferred a whipping to the punishment I received—I was not allowed to play with you or Richard for two weeks, as Mama was certain you had put the thought into my head.

I tried to explain that you, at least, would never encourage me to do wrong, and I never listen to Richard's suggestions, but she would not heed me.

Dear me, I am glad I am not twelve any longer! It certainly was a _trying_ age.

Aunt Bertram was apparently so impressed by my appearance at her dinner party a few weeks ago that she has offered to take me to town with her this winter so I can be properly made up. I was quite relieved when Mama said it wouldn't be proper as I am not yet _out_. One elegant dress is enough for me. I should hate to have to be fine all the time.

Mama wants to wait to bring me _out_ until next year, when I am eighteen. Aunt Bertram insists that I should come _out_ this winter, and Aunt de L. has written to say that she agrees I am too young yet, but perhaps this spring.

What a lot of nonsense it all is! I shall still be the same Cassandra Bertram whether I am _out_ or not. All coming _out_ means is that I shall be considered eligible for marriage, which is ridiculous. No young man upon talking to me for more than five minutes would ever wish to wed me, and I am sure there are very few young men I could ever dream of marrying. No, I am quite certain that I shall either be an old maid, perhaps a fond aunt to your twenty children when you find that wife of your dreams, Jamie, or else I will marry very late in life, when I am tired and no longer care so passionately about—well, everything.

So whether I come _out_ this winter, spring, or next fall, all it will mean for me is that I shall be forced to wear uncomfortable clothes all the time and be polite to society. What a dreadful bore!

_Your nonsensical cousin,_

_Cass._


	6. Chapter 6

14 October, 1830

Mansfield Parsonage

_My dear Jamie,_

What do you think? I've become acquainted with Miss Fulke at last! She is a dear—much sweeter than I, but far more interesting than Thea. She seems more _real_ than any of the other girls around here. Oh, I can't describe her properly. I shall simply relate to you how it all came about and let you see for yourself what she is like.

I was going for my usual walk across the fields, as I do every day that it is fine. (Papa still laments that we have no horse for me to ride, but really, I think I prefer walking. But this is beside the point.)

In the course of my walk, I saw another person walking a path somewhat parallel to mine. I am unaccustomed to seeing anyone else except the farmers on my walks, and even at a distance I could tell this lady was no farmer.

So, being naturally inquisitive, I turned my steps to meet her. As I drew near, I could tell it was Miss Fulke. She did not look pleased to see me, but as I was obviously heading toward her, I could not turn around without appearing rude.

We said "good day" and I asked her what she thought of the country. She replied that it was very fine, indeed, and our conversation seemed at an end.

I was feeling a bit annoyed by now—after all, it only makes sense that the clergyman's daughter and the curate's sister should be friends, especially when they are so close in age (for I do not believe Miss Fulke can be more than two years older than I). still, I felt it behoved me make at least one more attempt at conversation before giving her up as hopelessly stupid, so I asked her if the landscape here was quite a bit different from what she was used to in Scotland.

"Yes, very," she replied, but this time I thought I heard a bit of sadness in her voice.

"Do you miss it?" I asked. "Don't answer if it pains you," I blundered on. "I only ask because I know that were I ever to move from here I would want to tell everyone about my home, and I feel sure I would burst if no one seemed interested."

At that, Miss Fulke actually laughed. She has a very merry laugh, which rings out over the open fields like churchbells.

"Why, Miss Bertram, that is exactly how I feel! However did you know? It seems everyone here thinks of Scotland as a heathenish, wild place, and nobody wants to hear how beautiful I think it. I had convinced myself that all of England was dreadfully ignorant."

I told her that I longer to hear about Scotland, as I have always been quite fond of _The Lady of the Lake_. Indeed Jamie, don't you remember how we used to act it out? I was always Ellen, and Richard, of course, was King James, and you were James Douglas, Roderick Dhu, and Malcolm, as the occasion called for it. What fun it all was!

She brightened up considerably after that, and we walked on for at least two miles, she talking and I listening about Scotland, before we realised how far we had come!

Once we turned around, we began to speak of other things. She is not interested in politics, but not because she finds them unwomanly.

"Indeed, I think it every citizen's duty to inform oneself of the current political standing," she declared earnestly. "I know all about Mr. Wilberforce and the new Parliament, but I am afraid I cannot work up much interest in them. Colin (that is her brother) talks to me so much about doctrine and the church that I do not have room for any other weighty matters."

Now, you know, I have always thought I would be greatly interested in theology if I had the chance, but Papa considers that even more shocking for women to study than politics, so I have had to confine myself to the more worldly arena.

I was delighted to hear that Mr. Fulke discusses such matters with his sister. I had begun to think him a dull fellow, indeed, as I have rarely seen him smile. I was inclined not to put it down toward an unhappy love affair, but more toward simply a sour nature.

I am happy to report that I am wrong. At least, according to Miss Fulke, I am wrong. She speaks of him as the best and kindest of brothers, and the most satisfactory companion one could have.

Miss Fulke and I have quite similar interests in literature and music. She does not play, but she loves to sing. As I adore playing and have a voice like a crow, we decided we ought to practice duets sometime.

She has some of Cooper's _Leatherstocking Tales_ which she promises to lend me, and in return I shall let her borrow my copy of Wordsworth's poems. As you know, Jamie, I do not much care for poetry in general, but I do like Wordsworth.

Miss Fulke only speaks well of people, yet she does not blind herself to their faults. She told me that she has a hard time thinking of anybody as simply good or simple bad—but she fears most of us are quite foolish.

Therefore, she says, she cannot bring herself to heartily condemn anyone else's folly, for who knows what foolish acts she herself might commit later?

I told her quite honestly that I would not be so gracious. I agree with her that people are more stupid than anything else, but I cannot countenance folly, and would rather laugh at it.

In return, I fully expect others to laugh at _my_ faults. That only seems fair to me, but Miss Fulke is far kinder than I.

In some ways, she reminds me of you, Jamie—and I really can pay her no higher compliment than that.

She has invited me to take tea with her Wednesday next, as her brother is going to be visiting an elderly parishioner and she gets quite lonely when he is out. From what she says, I suspect he has been plaguing her, as brothers will do, to make more friends. So I believe she is happy to be able to tell him that she and I are, in fact, friends now.

And I am happy to tell Mama and Papa the same! Mama worries dreadfully that I do not make friends more easily. She fears I am a snob, while Papa thinks it is because I am so wild.

Dear me! I certainly shall never marry, Jamie dear. What are children but a plague and a torment to their parents?

_Yours affectionately,_

_Cass._


	7. Chapter 7

22 October, 1830

Mansfield Parsonage

_My dear Jamie,_

Once again I take pen in hand to tell you of a delightful day. I had the loveliest tea with Miss Fulke last Wednesday; I should have written to you sooner to tell you of it, except I have been engrossed in reading _The Last of the Mohicans_. Truly, it is an amazing tale. I had no idea the Americans had such brilliant writers among their ranks! It appears I have some prejudices of my own to conquer.

To recapitulate, Miss Fulke and I discovered that we have far more in common than otherwise, and we had a delightful time discussing our many common interests. It is so refreshing to talk to another of my own sex who is interested in something beyond fashion and gossip!

Indeed, Miss Fulke refuses to obey the dictates of fashion. She thinks both _gigot_ and _beret_ sleeves perfectly ridiculous, and she will not wear them. I had noticed that her sleeves looked somewhat slimmer than other ladies', but I had not paid that much attention. Miss Fulke also refuses to trim her frocks with anything more than a bit of piping or ribbon, and she wears no jewellery except a simple amber drop on a gold chain which her brother gave her.

Perhaps it is very plain, but I intend to style myself after her. Why should we allow the _ton_ to determine our ease and comfort? I loathed those enormous sleeves of my lovely green dress (there was enough fabric in them to make almost another dress entirely!), and I know they made me look ridiculous.

From here on in, I shall insist on smaller sleeves and simple styles. I know Mama will approve, and I defy my aunts' disapprobation.

But enough of this nonsense about dress. Miss Fulke told me a great deal about Scotland, which I dare not repeat, for I know I shan't do it justice, and I told her all about you and Richard and what fun we had as children together. I mentioned Thea but little, and the odious Isabella not at all. Miss Fulke's motto is: "If you can't say something kind about a person, say rather nothing at all." I fear I could never live up to such a lofty standard, but when I am with her, at least, I shall try to not offend her sense of decency.

The only blot on the day was when Mr. Fulke came in. Jamie, the dreadful man dislikes me! He scowled very blackly when he saw me sitting at ease with his sister. He did not say above two words to me, and when I left, I heard him scolding his sister for inviting me! I promise, I did not try to listen, but the window was open and I could not help but hear.

"Lucy," the dreadful creature said, "What in heaven's name did you invite her for?"

"Why Colin," Miss Fulke said spiritedly, "You are the one who wanted me to make friends here. Miss Bertram is a very congenial companion."

And then he _laughed_—a short, disagreeable laugh that made my face flush, as it so perfectly expressed his opinion of me.

"Really Lucy, I thought you had sense," he sneered.

"I am sorry you do not like it, Colin, but I am quite fond of Miss Bertram, and I do not intend to stop seeing her. She is the only other young woman with whom I can have an intelligent conversation in this country."

At that point I had to leave, as if I stood listening any longer they might have noticed me. Besides, I wanted to fly into the room and—pull his ears! Really, not even Richard has ever spoken so rudely about me.

Or maybe he has, and I just haven't heard it. Dear me, I am suddenly quite downcast. What if everyone I have always thought likes me is simply being polite to my face?

Jamie, _you_ like me, don't you? I do not think you could pretend to like me if you didn't, so I am secure in _your_ affection, at any rate.

I am mean enough to wish that Aunt de Lacey and Isabella would visit. I should love to see Mr. Fulke fall in love with Isabella. I do believe they deserve each other!

That would leave Miss Fulke with Isabella as a sister, though, and I would not wish that on anybody I had any amount of affection for.

Aside from Mr. Fulke's rudeness, though, it was a perfectly lovely day, and I have invited Miss Fulke to tea here next week, with Mama and me. She has accepted, so apparently she is standing by her determination to not drop our acquaintance simply because her brother is a boor.

Really, I pretend to be quite angry, but underneath it all, I am hurt. I don't know why he should dislike me. I certainly have never done anything to him. I—I am not used to being disliked, Jamie. It is a most unpleasant sensation.

Perhaps I have been too unkind to Thea—yes, and even to Isabella, though she is perfectly odious and I cannot say otherwise! Still, now that I am on the receiving end of someone else's dislike … I would feel horrid if I ever put anyone else through such feelings.

Do write soon, Jamie, and make me quite comfortable in my mind again. For all that I like Miss Fulke so much … her brother's poor opinion of me is shadowing my enjoyment of everything.

_Yours,_

_Cass._


	8. Chapter 8

5 November, 1830

Mansfield Parsonage

_My dear Jamie,_

I'm not sure whether or not to thank you for your last letter. I know you meant to be kind, but … well, I did not particularly enjoy having someone agree with me that I have been too uncharitable toward my cousins and my aunt's ward! I was rather hoping to have you tell me that I am a wonderful, kindly person, and I have every right to be outraged by Mr. Fulke's hostile attitude toward me, as I have never done anything deserving of such behaviour!

Instead you pointed out—in the gentlest way, of course—that now that I see how unpleasant it is to have someone treat me badly, perhaps I will want to be kinder toward others. And you ever so subtly ask me to consider if I have ever acted in a way to justify Mr. Fulke's behaviour!

Dear Jamie, I am so used to you supporting me in all things that it quite troubles me to have you point out that I am imperfect. _I_ know I am not perfect, of course, but I would like others to think so!

You are right, insofar as regards Thea and Isabella, at any rate. Isabella, of course, has always been odious toward me, but that is not why I dislike her so. The plain fact of the matter is that I am jealous. It looks so ugly to see it written down on paper! Almost as ugly as admitting it in my own mind. For all my claimed superiority of mind, I am quite simple jealous of Miss Isabella Huston.

I understand Aunt de Lacey's motivation behind taking Isabella under her wing. When our aunt, plain Susan Price, with no discernable dowry except the paltry sum her uncle bestowed upon her, married a baronet—not merely the son of a baronet, but the baronet himself, and a most eligible one at that—well, the fashionable world reeled. Aunt de L. had to endure much scorn from the _ton_ for many years.

So it would make sense that she would want, now that she has some standing amongst her peers, to play a sort of fairy godmother to a young girl who would otherwise be ostracized because of her birth.

It makes sense, as well, as Isabella's natural father was one of Sir Frederick's closest friends, and when he died, the girl and her mother were left penniless and friendless. And when Miss Huston passed away as well, and Isabella left an orphan … well! It simply speaks to my aunt and uncle's generous hearts, that they would take her in and treat her as their own, especially as they have no children.

I grant all that, Jamie! Do me that justice, at least. I fully see the kindness of our aunt, and I would like to love Isabella as a cousin, and defend her from the sneers of those who mock her for the circumstances of her birth, for which she, poor girl, can hardly be held responsible.

If only she weren't so arrogant! She flaunts her disgraceful beginning, and revels in how far she has risen. She boasts of my aunt's fondness for her without showing any affection in return. She is determined to make a wealthy match, and does not care over whom she must trample to get there.

Yet with all that, our aunt _does_ dote on her. Everyone pities her (except from the aforementioned sneerers) and treats her as thought she were a princess. Young men fall under her spell, young ladies wish to be like her. She sets the fashion wherever she goes, she can command any company she likes …

Yes, I am jealous. Here am I, far more intelligent, well-bred, of a respectable family, and I have only last month made my first real friend (Aside from you, naturally). Why should the world revolve around Isabella? It simply isn't fair.

Dear me, I sound like a whiny child, and all I meant to do was explain my dislike of her! No, let me honest: I wished to justify it. And now, seeing it written …

It sounds quite petty.

Thea, of course, I have no excuse for, and well I know it. I don't, truly, dislike her. I simply can't like her. She is so _very_ insipid.

You are right, of course, I should be kinder toward her.

I would love Richard, if he would let me. If only he didn't insist on treating me like a child! He is my cousin, just as you are, and I so wish to be better friends with him. we had such fun as children; it makes me quite angry at him sometimes to see him dismiss those days with his careless laugh.

(By the way, he was visiting Sunday last and saw Miss Fulke for the first time. I do believe he rather fancies her! He seemed quite struck by her beauty, at any rate. She did not seem to notice him, which I think added to her charms. Richard is not accustomed to being unnoticed!)

As for your other question—have I done anything to cause Mr. Fulke's dislike—I do not think I have. I have thought and thought, and I cannot think of anything I might have done to justify him. I have been polite; I have not spoken ill of anyone in front of him; I have not even attempted to shock him with my views on Parliament! Add to that, I have shown kindness to his sister (though that is because I like her, not for any altruistic reason) …

Really Jamie, I do believe I am innocent there.

I will strive to be more charitable toward Isabella and Thea—yes, and Richard as well, if he will let me. I would like to be a better person, though I do not look forward to the work involved in making me so!

Today is Guy Fawkes' Day. The village boys are planning their usual bonfire. I had hoped to go down and join in the celebration, but Papa does not think it proper for a young lady, so instead I will sit in the parlour and sew. Mama approves of my scheme to dress more simply despite fashion, but she shows it by asking me to sew my winter dress! I am a dreadful seamstress, but I will endeavour to make this dress well, to please her.

I hope you are well, Jamie dear. Do tell me if you ever plan to blow up Parliament. I will cast aside propriety like an old hat and rush to your side, ready to join in the good work!

_Yours,_

_Cass._


	9. Chapter 9

18 November, 1830

Mansfield Parsonage

_My dear Jamie,_

This entire week has been drear, dank, and drizzly.

Do you like my alliteration?

Though it has been most unpleasant out of doors, Lucy—Miss Fulke—and I have been keeping quite entertained. We finished our winter dresses yesterday, and I must say that sewing is much more enjoyable with a friend with whom one might converse. Mama came into the sewing room occasionally for some work of her own, but she did not seem to mind our girlish chatter.

I know how little you care for women's finery, my dear, but you must allow me the indulgence of describing to you my frock, as I have no female correspondent who may bear the burden.

It is of a deep green wool with tiny cream flowers scattered across it, made with a fairly high waist (though nothing like the dresses of Mama's youth), a deep V neck (not to worry, I wear a cream inset with it so that I don't look too scandalous), slightly rounded sleeves (though not as enormous as what is stylish), and a cream lace at the neck and sleeves. Does this convey anything to your mind? You must come home at Christmas so you can see me in it, and then it will make sense.

Lucy's dress is of a similar pattern to mine, though her neck is rounded and higher. She chose a deep rose colour for hers, and has two interchangeable chemisettes, one of a pale pink for everyday, and a lacy white one for good.

Now, don't you feel privileged to be let in on these secrets of women's dress? I believe no other man at Oxford, save the tailors, know so much. It is a good thing to have a well-rounded education, my dear Jamie.

In other news, as you can tell by my use of her first name, Lucy Fulke and I have become fast friends. We see each other nearly every day, if not to sew, than simply to talk. She is the most delightful conversationalist—witty, and yet not at anyone's expense. She thinks deeply, and feels deeply, too I believe, though I could not say for certain on that matter, but she does not overwhelm with her knowledge. Alas, that I had that ability! I am so eager to prove that my sex does not disqualify me from thinking that I pontificate and make a fool of myself in that way.

Mr. Fulke does not grow any more pleasant. Indeed, he broods most of the time. Even my father cannot understand him—when Mr. Fulke first arrived, he was eager to help and learn. Now he is sullen and short-tempered with us all, and he utterly refuses to teach a sermon. All he does is visit the poor and ailing—which a curate ought to do, of course, but his duties ought to encompass more than that.

According to Lucy, he has never been like this before. She is quite concerned for him, but he will not even confide in her.

Perhaps he has murdered a man!

Or maybe he has robbed someone in Scotland and he is on the run. Maybe he isn't really Mr. Fulke at all, but a vile impostor, deceiving us all.

No, that one cannot be true, for Lucy would surely know if her brother was not who he claimed to be—either that, or she would be part of the plot as well, and she is far too transparent to pull off such a deception.

Have you enjoyed my letter of sheer nonsense, Jamie? You shall only have to endure a few more before your vacation, and then you must—you absolutely must—come home. Your father will still be at sea, and surely our grandparents Price can give us one holiday with you—they have had you for so many of late.

Come home, Jamie. Even Aunt Bertram misses you!

_Yours ever,_

_Cass_.


	10. Chapter 10

24 November, 1830

Mansfield Parsonage

_Dear Jamie,_

I am so glad to hear that you will be coming here for Christmas! You are quite right to remind me that Mansfield is not officially your "home," since you were born and lived the first several years of your life in Portsmouth, close to our grandparents' house, and indeed, lived with them for a few months after your dear Mama passed away. Not until Mama pled with your father for to come stay with us did you come to Mansfield. But you have been a part of our lives for so long, except when Grandmother and Grandfather Price claim you, that I forget Mansfield has not always been your home, and you are not truly my brother.

In any case, I am glad you are coming. The holidays would not seem the same without you. Aunt Bertram, of course, is most delighted to have Richard coming home, and has already planned countless gaieties to enliven his time. She wishes him to meet Miss Cooke, who is a wealthy South Seas heiress here visiting her family. I know nothing about Miss Cooke—and I will refrain from speculating.

You see, I am coming along in my attempts to be charitable.

* * *

_Later_

Directly after I wrote the last line, I had to lay the pen down, and now I am supposed to be asleep, for it is quite late, but I have to tell you what happened!

I have just finished penning those words when a shadow fell across my page, and I looked up to see Mr. Fulke standing next to my bench! I rose at once, naturally, and curtseyed, and he bowed, and then he said,

"I am sorry to disturb your solitude, Miss Bertram, but I am seeking your father. Do you know where he is?"

"Why yes," I replied. "He and Mama are spending the day at Thornton Lacey, visiting some of their acquaintances there."

(You remember, Jamie, that Thornton Lacey is where Mama and Papa lived for the first few years of their marriage, and where Aunt de L. met Sir Frederick.)

Mr. Fulke looked quite troubled.

"Is there anything with which I might assist you?" I inquired. I hardly expected him to answer in the affirmative, as he has shown such a decided dislike for me, but one must be polite.

"I'm not sure," he said. "Mrs. Perth, down in the village, is quite ill. She refuses a doctor, and insists she is dying. I thought your father would be best equipped to come comfort her, but if he is not here, I shall have to return and do my poor best."

"I shall come with you," I promptly declared, rising and wrapping my shawl around my shoulders.

Mr. Fulke looked startled—though at my promptitude, my willingness to go, or the impropriety of me accompanying him unescorted, I am uncertain.

"I wouldn't dream of asking you …" he began, when I cut him off.

"Father would want me to go in his place." This, as you know, is perfectly true. "Besides, if Mrs. Perth is truly ill, you may need a woman's assistance."

"Truly ill? Do you doubt my word?"

He stiffened up ridiculously, and I disabused him of that notion at once. "Not yours, Mr. Fulke, but Mrs. Perth declares she is dying about twice a year. Sometimes she is actually ill, but others, I suspect, she is merely bored."

Well, he actually smiled at that! And I thought again what a pleasant—even handsome—face he has when he smiles. It is a great pity he does not do so more often!

"Very well then, Miss Bertram, it would be my pleasure to escort you."

We walked mostly in silence to Mrs. Perth's cottage. As I had suspected, she was fretful rather than ill. Mr. Fulke read to her from the Scriptures (she requested something from the Common Book, but he said he didn't have it on him—odd, now that I think of it. Why would he have the Holy Bible and not the Book of Common Prayer?), while I tidied the cottage (and the children, who were filthy), and heated a batch of chicken soup I had borrowed from our kitchen.

We left Mrs. Perth feeling much better; she even deigned to say that she thought she might live out the night, yet.

"Thank you for accompanying me, Miss Bertram," Mr. Fulke said when we were out of earshot. "I really thought she was dying, and would have botched the job had you not assisted."

"Mrs. Perth is a good soul," I answered seriously. "All of her children are grown, but she takes care of her dead daughter's three babes, as well as two local orphans who would otherwise end in the poorhouse, I fear. She is entitled to a bit of rest once in a while, and if she can only get that by fancying herself ill, then who am I to judge?"

Mr. Fulke looked surprised; then he laughed. "Why, Miss Bertram, I begin to think I misjudged you, as well."

I glanced at him sideways. "If you have formed any opinion of my character at this point, it is certain to be incorrect. You know me, sir, not at all."

"No indeed, I fear I am very poor at making friends. Lucy does it much better than I."

"And I," I admitted candidly. "Though even I am better known to the people here than you are, Mr. Fulke."

"You think me standoffish," he stated.

"No! for I know you as little as you know me, and I would not dare to paint a picture of you yet. For all I know, you may be shy."

He did not laugh. "I am, by nature, very fond of good company," he said. "I believe I am amiable—at least, my friends have been kind enough to call me so—and I try to live up to my religion as best I can. Please believe me, Miss Bertram, when I say that my present poor attitude is not an accurate reflection of who I am, nor is it the fault of anyone here. I am—I am merely going through a difficult period in my life."

"I am sorry to hear it," I said. "If there is anything I could do to help …"

"Thank you, but I fear I must fight this through alone."

Poor man! I begin to think Miss Chatsworth correct, and he is recovering from an unhappy love affair. Perhaps the girl who jilted him had red hair, and that is why he took such an instant dislike to me.

"You were very good to Mrs. Perth," I said, thinking he might appreciate a change in subject. "She does so love being read to. I am more than willing, when I visit, but she thinks it inappropriate for a woman to read much of Scripture. Papa visits and reads when he can, but he has so many people to visit, that he cannot take all the time he might wish."

"Well," said Mr. Fulke with an attempt at a smile. "That is why he has a curate, is it not? To tend those duties for which he has no time himself?"

"That, and to prepare said curate toward becoming a clergyman himself," I answered, for I know Papa takes that part of his duty very seriously.

Mr. Fulke sighed. "I fear he has taken on a fearful task in me, then."

I longed to ask him what he meant, but we were met at that moment by Miss Chatsworth and two of her bosom friends, and I could not. It is just as well—that would not have been a polite question and I likely would have undone all my hard work at giving him a better impression of me!

Mr. Fulke turned off on another visit shortly after we met Miss Chatsworth, and I had to bear some very impertinent questions from her on why Mr. Fulke and I were out walking. I explained, that as the clergyman's daughter, I had to assist him with some of his parish duties, but she insisted on reading more into it. Wretched girl! She made me quite angry, and finally I reminded her that I am not _out_ and therefore not bound to the same rules of society she is, and even if I were, the niece of Sir Thomas Bertram could hardly be accused of improper behaviour, as if she was merely a tradesman's daughter.

That blow stung, as Mr. Chatsworth owns a shop in town.

Now, Jamie, I know that was unkind, but I had no other recourse but to remind her of who I was. I do not want to start rumours swirling about Mr. Fulke and me! I owed it to him, as well as to Mama and Papa, to protect my reputation.

Miss Chatsworth is simply jealous, anyhow, because Mr. Fulke is no more than polite to her, and now she has seen the two of us engaged in conversation. If she had more brains—There! I won't finish that thought.

She said nothing more, and I trust the reference to my uncle will keep her from spreading any vicious gossip—Cassandra Bertram, clergyman's daughter, may be an easy target, but the niece of Sir Thomas Bertram of Mansfield Park carries a bit more weight.

In any case, I do not repent going. My father was pleased, when he returned—and if _he_ did not think it improper for me to go with Mr. Fulke, it can only be acceptable socially. He will visit Mrs. Perth himself tomorrow, and commend Mr. Fulke to her.

I am glad, also, to finally have had a chance to become slightly acquainted with Mr. Fulke. He is not as amiable as his sister—but I believe there is hope for him yet.

Goodnight, dear Jamie.

_Yours,_

_Cass._


	11. Chapter 11

10 December, 1830

Mansfield Parsonage

_Dear Jamie,_

Just a short note, for you will be home soon! I beg your pardon, you will be here at Mansfield Parsonage soon. I am quite beside myself with anticipation of having both you and Richard here. It will be like old times!

I know nothing can ever be like the past, as we have outgrown our childish selves, and times have changed, but for the three of us to be together again will be delightful, even if Richard does patronize me. After all, when has he ever done anything different?

Mama has invited Mr. and Miss Fulke to spend Christmas Day with us, as they are all alone. Lucy quite kindly said that they prefer to spend the morning by themselves, carrying out some family traditions, but they would be more than pleased to join us in the evening—she would not presume to accept for dinner. Mama insisted, and so our dinner at Mansfield Park shall consist of Papa, Mama, and me, you; Mr. and Miss Fulke; Aunt Bertram, Sir Thomas, and Richard; Aunt Maria; Aunt and Uncle Yates and Thea; Aunt de Lacey and Sir Frederick (yes! Sir Frederick shall tear himself away from his estate long enough to pay us a visit at long last) and Isabella; and Miss Cooke and the Misses Greyes, Miss Cooke's aunts whom she is visiting.

It does seem a pity to introduce a strange element into our family gathering, but Aunt B. is determined Richard shall fall in love with Miss Cooke. And, to be _perfectly_ just, the Fulkes are not family either, and I have no qualms about them coming!

Miss Chatsworth has not spread any rumours regarding Mr. Fulke and me—at least, none that I have heard. I am uncertain whether this is due to my rebuke, or the fact that she still hopes to win his heart, and cannot do so in the form of a gossiping miss who has slandered his good name. At any rate, _my_ good name, such as it is, has remained untarnished, and people continue to think of poor Mr. Fulke as a sullen, unpleasant fellow.

Lucy, when I dropped a few hints, said her brother has never been in love to _her_ knowledge, so the mystery deepens as to what his particular trouble could be. I hope he will exert himself to be pleasant at Christmas, for I so want you to think well of both of them. No one could help but think well of Lucy, but her brother, I fear, lends himself to misunderstanding.

_Adieux_, dear Jamie, I shall see you soon!

_Always your loving,_

_Cass.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I have neglected this story far too long, and Cass has recently started reprimanding me for it. She is quite the feisty, determined one, as should be obvious by her letters, and so I have really no choice but to yield to her demand and start chronicling her tale again. My apologies for the shortness of this letter; hopefully the next one will be longer and more entertaining.  
_


	12. Chapter 12

12 January, 1831

Mansfield Parsonage

_Dear Jamie,_

The only difficulty with anticipating something delightful, is that after the event takes place, one feels so very flat. I had been looking forward so to your visit that now that it is over I cannot work up any enthusiasm for anything!

I shall not complain, though. It was lovely seeing you (and Richard, naturally). You do look so very grown-up now, Jamie! Richard, of course, still looks and acts exactly as though he were still fourteen, and according to Aunt Bertram I am still terribly _gauche_ for my age (especially when compared to Thea and Isabelle). You are the only one of our old trio to actually appear a man!

It would look awfully silly if I appeared like a man, wouldn't it?

I am so glad you liked Lucy and Mr. Fulke. I was nervous for them at Christmas; sometimes the family can be dreadful without even realizing it. We are so accustomed to each other that we rarely think how we might appear to outsiders, and I was afraid we might scare them away—or at least frighten poor Mr. Fulke into even a worse silence than that to which he usually maintains!

Lucy, of course, is sweetness personified, so I was not at all surprised when you confided to me after dinner how much you liked her. And don't worry, despite the wine you drank, you were able to make yourself quite clear to me that you liked her as a _person_, not romantically. I suppose you will marry someone someday, won't you Jamie? It is odd to think! I almost feel as though I could hate your future wife, for of course you must like her better than me, but then I know I could never hate anyone you loved. So I am sure we will all be good friends.

Mr. Fulke certainly appeared to advantage, though, did he not? You must have been surprised at how amiable he was, considering my accounts of him previously! Part of me fears he fell under Isabelle's spell, but I could not detect that he was any more attentive to her than anyone else. Indeed, he was more charming to Aunt de Lacey than he was to Isabelle!

Of course, I do not see how anyone could be less than charming to Aunt de L. she is so charming herself, and she has such a knack of putting people at ease. Did I tell you—no, I am sure I did not—that she drew me aside Christmas morning and told me how glad she was I was not bowing down to the dictates of fashion?

"You are finding what is flattering to you, and that is more important than having sleeves too large to fit through a door," she told me with twinkling eyes.

Aunt de L herself dresses with exquisite (and expensive) simplicity, and she is admired among all the _ton_. Of course, Isabelle always has the very latest fashion! Did you see her knock poor Aunt Bertram's Christmas roses off the table with her sleeves? One moment they were safe, the next she turned to smile enchantingly at Richard, and _whoosh_, over went the roses. Luckily Mr. Fulke was there to catch them, which I believe endeared Aunt B to him forever! No matter how dour and gloomy he is in the future, she will always defend him as the Champion of the Christmas Roses.

I will admit that the topknot and braids do suit Isabelle, and even Thea. They both have noble profiles and need not be ashamed of showing off their faces. Me, I much prefer wearing my hair in a simple knot with plenty of softness around my face to hide my ears. It is unfortunate that I alone out of all my cousins should have inherited the Bertram ears! I do wish I could have had the Price ears, like yours, Jamie—sitting so nice and close to the sides of your head.

You were so kind to tell me how proud you were of me, Jamie, for my attempts to be kinder toward people, and to speak more graciously. Could you really detect a difference? Sometimes I think I am improving, but others … well, old habits die hard, and occasionally my real feelings _will_ evidence themselves! A truly good person, I know, would be kinder on the inside, as well as out, but I am not that far advanced yet.

Oh, and in case I did not thank you sufficiently while you were here, I do so adore your present. Papa still is unsure about the suitability of a biography of George Whitefield and Jonathan Edwards for a young lady, but I find the account of their lives fascinating. I cannot approve of Whitefield's appeal to emotions, though I know that nowadays we are all for emotionalism. Edwards scheme, of preaching everything in as dry a tone as possible, so that the only effect on his hearers would be that of the Holy Scriptures, also seems odd, though. I suppose I would prefer something in between.

Papa, of course, considers them both dangerous men, and wonders why I enjoy reading about them so much.

"Cassandra," he said warningly, "You are not a Nonconformist, are you?"

I assured him I was not, but that I did appreciate seeing other points of view. Indeed, I dare not tell him this, but I see much to admire in Methodism. Again, I cannot embrace their overly emotional brand of Christianity, but I do like the fact that they are not so bound to church tradition as we are. So many times, when I ask Papa why we do some of the things we do, he raises his eyebrows and simply says,

"Because that is the way we have always done it. It is church tradition."

I must say that I do not see how that makes any difference! If a tradition is wrong, or meaningless, than why should we cling to it simple because it _is_ tradition? The fact that it has been practiced for generations does not in and of itself make an act right. Slavery has been practiced in England seemingly forever, and yet both Papa and Mama are strongly opposed to that.

As you can see, your book has started me thinking many more "unwomanly" thoughts—and I am grateful!

Lest you think me too lofty, I will confess that my second favourite gift, after yours, was the silk dress from Aunt de L and Sir Frederick. When Aunt said she was been planning on waiting until my eighteenth birthday, but decided to give it to me now, once she heard from Mama my new endeavours to work with fashion, rather than ignoring it—well, I felt more like a young lady than I ever have before or since!

I know you, as a man, are supremely indifferent to such matters as silk dresses, but even you must have noticed how beautiful it was. Such a soft, pretty shade of green, that almost looked silver in some lights! And how perfectly made; I tried it on Christmas night, after everyone else had gone to bed, and it is the first elegant dress I have ever owned that does not make me look more clumsy and awkward than I really am. The sleeves, with just a hint of fullness; the skirt that rustled so smoothly around my ankles; the wide belt that made my waist look quite slim; the delicate embroidery on the bodice … I will spare you the rest of my effusions.

Papa still declares I shall not attend a ball until I am eighteen and truly _out_, so I suppose my poor dress will have to languish in storage until my birthday. It is most unfair, as the Easter Ball is quite a respectable affair and _many_ girls attend it before they are _out_. But there!—I will not complain. Papa has a certain reputation to uphold, and I should hate to disgrace him or even cause people to speak unkindly about him by any hint of impropriety on my account.

I fear my Nonconformist readings cause him enough worry as it is!

Goodnight, Jamie dear, I hope and trust your vacation was as delightful to you as it was to me.

_Cass._

I almost forgot—_did_ you ever see anything so amusing as Aunt B trying to bring Richard and poor Miss Cooke together? I daresay Miss Cooke wouldn't have minded, and really, she cannot help her unfortunate face and figure, and I daresay she is very sweet—but Richard will never fall in love with an ugly woman! Poor Aunt B!


	13. Chapter 13

21 January, 1831

Mansfield Parsonage

_Dear Jamie,_

Well! You will never guess what has happened here this past week. Mama received a letter on Monday from an old acquaintance. She turned quite pale as she read it, but would not tell me who had sent it. This was at breakfast, and immediately afterward she repaired to her bedchamber, where I heard her pacing for over an hour. As you can imagine, I was nearly wild trying to guess what was happening. All I could think of was that something had happened to your dear papa! When she finally emerged, her face still white, but quite serene, I fell upon her.

"Oh Mama!" I cried. "Do tell me—I am quite old enough to help you bear it. Is it Uncle William?"

She patted my shoulder reassuringly. "Not at all, Cassandra dear, and I am sorry to have alarmed you. Nothing is wrong."

"Then what does the letter say?" I demanded.

She hesitated, then said, "As you say, you are no longer a child. I will tell you everything."

She proceeded to tell me the old story about Mr. and Miss Crawford, about how they wormed their way into everyone's affections at Mansfield, and then how Mr. Crawford violently abused their trust when he induced Aunt Maria to leave her husband for him. Well, of course I have known _that_ practically since the cradle—the servants told me it! Dear Mama, she believes everyone as pure and unworldly as herself. Since she does not tolerate gossip, she assumes nobody indulges in it.

Then she told me that which I did not know—that Miss Crawford had professed a sincere affection for Mama during all this _and_ had appeared to be quite in love with Papa. Somehow the servants forgot to tell me that part! I did know that Mr. Crawford had offered his hand to Mama before running off with Aunt M, and that she had _quite rightly_ refused him. She may be unworldly, but she can recognize a wicked man when everyone else is blinded by his charm!

When Mr. Crawford had ruined Aunt M, Miss Crawford showed her true colours: she blamed Mama for it all, saying that if she had accepted Mr. Crawford's offer he never would have been tempted by Aunt M, and she tried to induce Papa to cover up the entire incident. She also showed that much of her professed love for Papa was based on the hope that my uncle Sir Thomas, who was the heir at the time, would die young and Papa would become the baronet. How shockingly vulgar!

While I was absorbing all this, Mama explained that she had wished to never have to tell me of this sordid part of their past; indeed, they themselves had hoped to forget it. But her letter of the morning had done away with all such hope. It was from Miss Crawford herself.

She has, for the last fifteen years, been living with her sister Mrs. Grant. However, Mrs. Grant died this past autumn, and Miss Crawford is left alone and, so she claims, friendless. She wrote to Mama to beg that she might come and visit us here at Mansfield Parsonage. Mama actually showed me the letter, and I reproduce part of it here:

_I am sure you are too generous, dearest Fanny_ (imagine the cheek, to address Mama so intimately!)_ to bear me any grudge for my or my brother's past indiscretions. Indeed, seeing how happy your life has turned out, and how sad mine has, you ought only to feel pity toward me_ (as though Mama should feel guilty that righteous living has brought its reward)_. My dear sister has left me for a better place_ (so one hopes)_ and Henry, of course, is alienated to me forever. I am no longer young, and I find my thoughts turning more and more to the place I was happiest in my life: when I was staying at Mansfield Parsonage and basking in the friendship of dear Fanny_ (she obviously could not have valued it that much, to let so much time pass without a word)_. Knowing your kind heart and generous nature, I dare even to ask to come and pay you a visit this spring. Rest assured, I shall be the humblest and meekest of guests_ (somehow I doubt that)_, and shall not presume to renew my friendship with those at Mansfield Park, as I understand Maria Bertram is living there now and might find the memories I bring too painful to bear with equanimity_ (a just assessment, but what about Mama and Papa's painful memories?)_. I merely wish to see my sweet Fanny again and bask in the warmth of her kind heart._

Did you ever read such nonsense? No wonder Mama was upset! At first she thought she would say no without even consulting Papa, and I wish she had, but she decided he would wish to have the final say.

He, of course, did not want to have anything to do with Miss Crawford, but was apparently touched by some of her drivel, and thought that turning her away might show an unforgiving nature. Then Sir Thomas and Aunt B caught wind of it, and Aunt M, and suddenly everyone had an opinion! Sir Thomas thinks we ought to let bygones be bygones, and Aunt B simply shudders at the thought of such a woman tarnishing the hallowed estate of Mansfield, and Aunt Yates writes to say she would be ashamed to ever consider the thought of receiving Miss Crawford, and Aunt M just cries over her lost opportunities …

It has been an exhausting week.

After much prayer and thought, Papa and Mama have decided she may come. Mama has sent a reply stating as much, and we are preparing the guest room for her. She said she wants to spend the spring at Mansfield, so we expect her sometime in February, to stay until May or June.

I am torn. Of course Papa and Mama are doing the charitable, Christian thing by forgiving her past indiscretions and letting her come to them … but I loathe the thought of having a woman in our house who once flirted with Papa and abused Mama's friendship! You know how overly strong my family loyalty is, Jamie. I fear I may be utterly rude to Miss Crawford.

Aunt de Lacey sent me a very kind letter yesterday in which she stated that if I find life with Miss Crawford intolerable, I can always come stay with them for a few weeks. I am grateful for her thought—but it remains to be seen who would be worse, Miss Crawford or the odious Isabella!

I will write you again after She comes, and give you my impressions.

_Yours,_

_Cass._


	14. Chapter 14

10 February, 1831

Mansfield Parsonage

_Dear Jamie,_

I am sitting outside to write this—on the bench in the garden. It's frightfully cold, but this is the only place I can be assured that She won't suddenly appear over my shoulder, coyly asking if I am writing to my _beau_ and trying to unobtrusively read my letter.

She has been here for three days, and already I am thinking of taking Aunt de Lacey at her word and asking if I may visit! She is the most unbearable person I have ever met, and all my attempts at charity are withering away. I daren't ask Lucy over anymore, as I know She will start poking and prying into Lucy and Mr. Fulke's private lives, all under the guise of merry chatter. She is _intolerably_ girlish and falsely sweet. She exclaimed upon arrival how much Mama had aged: "Why Fanny, I should never have recognized you! Are those grey streaks in your hair?"

Mama has no grey in her hair whatsoever, but the longer She is here the more likely it seems that she will develop some. And I've never thought Mama looked particularly aged, but even looking old would be preferable to Her false youth. She insists on wearing colours and styles far too young for Her, and flirts _abominably_ with every man she meets, whether he be eligible or no! She never said a word about Papa looking old, but coyly told him how distinguished he had grown, and how he looked far more like a baronet than Sir Thomas. All this in front of Mama and me!

I had hoped that She would ignore me, but instead She is trying to be my _friend_, insisting that I tell Her all about my intrigues and romances.

"I'll never tell a soul, dear," She gushed to me the day after She arrived. "I've kept a great many secrets in my time!"

Now, the only secrets I have involve an interest in politics and a sneaking sympathy for Nonconformists and women like Elizabeth Heyrick, who is active in her campaign against slavery—though a woman! (By the by, is it true that Mr. Wilberforce has spoken very strongly against her activities? It seems odd, considering they are working toward the same goal!)

At any rate, I cannot imagine Miss C would think my ideals and interests at all interesting, as Her head is full of nothing but matrimonial schemes and plots. She has already asked me about Sir Thomas's health; She heard he was "very poorly, dear man." I suppose She hopes to wed Richard and become the next Lady Bertram!

Mama bears with Her with admirable equanimity, and Papa escapes by visiting the poor and ill of the parish even more frequently than before. Lucy says her brother spends a great deal more time now at home, because Papa has taken over yet more of his duties. He (Mr. Fulke, not Papa) still refuses to preach, though, and Papa fears he must soon speak to him about this unnatural reluctance. After all, how can one succeed from curate to vicar if one does not practice _all_ a clergyman's duties?

Back to Miss C—She does not care for fresh air ("So damp! So dangerous to one's complexion; really Fanny, I wonder at you allowing Cassandra to spend so much time outside. Her skin will be dull and wrinkled by the time she is twenty!") and so I escape Her whenever I can by slipping out to the garden.

And I have had my reward. Yesterday I saw my first snowdrop of the season! Spring truly is coming, though the landscape is currently bleak and dreary. With the advent of spring, perhaps even She will become more tolerable. At any rate, hopefully She will stop complaining about the draughts and chills. "I remember this corner was always damp when my sister lived here; I would have thought _someone_ would have fixed it by now. Is Sir Thomas too mean? Fanny, is Edmund—I mean, Mr. Bertram's—salary insufficient? You poor dear, what you have to bear, seeing his brother living in luxury while you must shiver away here in practical poverty!"

I truly hope my next letter to you will not have to tell how I murdered Her in Her sleep!

_Yours in agony,_

_Cass._


	15. Chapter 15

18 February, 1831

Mansfield Parsonage

_Dear Jamie,_

Thank you so much for your letter; it cheered me immensely. Of course, She caught me reading it and smiling to myself, and immediately wanted to know what young man could "bring such a rosy blush to those pale cheeks, dear?"

I informed Her that my cousin was a marvellous letter-writer, and my cheeks always flushed when I was trying to restrain my unladylike laughter. Then, naturally, She assumed that you and I "had an understanding. And do your parents know it, dear, or is it a Very Great Secret?"

I said we understood each other very well, and everyone knew it!

At any rate, even Her pricks could not truly damage my enjoyment of your letter. I am delighted your studies are going so well—to think you may place in the top ten of your class! No, I don't think it at all vain for you to pass on to me your professor's compliment. You should be very proud of yourself for earning so much respect, Jamie dear. I well recall, when you and Richard started out at Oxford, how everyone assumed he would do so well and you would be lucky to finish, seeing as how he was a baronet's son and you only the son of a poor naval captain. Yet here you are, earning awards and honours right and left, while he (so I understand from some of Aunt B's sighed laments) is in significant danger of being plucked.

"He is so high-spirited," she mourned to me. "I suppose academics just can't understand the temperament of a boy such as my darling Richard!"

I forbore to point out that over-indulgence in his youth might have been the cause of his current resistance to any type of discipline. After all, it _must_ have been hard on my poor aunt to see her other three children carried off in one year by disease. No wonder she spoiled Richard when he was all she had left!

You must be glad to have so many siblings, Jamie, even if you are all spread out amongst various members of the family and cannot see each other very often. I know I think of you as my brother, and tend to forget that you have two sisters and one brother of your own! How are they, by the way? I'm afraid I rarely think of them, seeing as how you are the one who lived with us and the only one I really know. Arabella is married now, with children of her own, correct? And Davy is at Eton … what is your younger sister doing? Is she still living with our Grandparents Price? How old is she now?

Speaking of families … Miss C _very impertinently_ asked Mama the other day why she and Papa had only the one child (me). "I would have expected you to have at least half a dozen trailing after you," She laughed.

Even I do not know the exact details of Mama's illness after I was born, and if I did I certainly would not be so improper as to relate them to _you_, my dear cousin. I do know, however, that she was unable to bear more children after my birth (and I blush to even speak of such a topic to you; I would never have brought it up if She had not first), and it has always been a matter of great sorrow to her and Papa. I saw tears fill her eyes at the thoughtless question (though She noticed nothing!), yet she simply replied in a quiet but calm voice that such was not God's will.

Dearest Mama! I so wish I could have her faith and strength!

Miss C simply trilled a careless laugh and said that for Her part, She couldn't see the point in bringing more children into an already overcrowded world, anyway.

"Nature, dear Fanny," She said, "Did not intend me to be a mother."

I should think not!

Lucy has asked me to tea tomorrow; I shall be quite thankful to escape. I fear more that I will break out in a rage against Her than anything else. I can bear Her insinuations and slyness against me with far greater equanimity than I can Her impertinence to Mama and Papa. Tea with Lucy will be quite the relief!

I apologize for the complaining tone of the latter part of this letter, Jamie. I did intend originally to write only cheerful items, but somehow She creeps into my thoughts and I cannot help but break out in helpless outrage. Hopefully my next letter will be full of only bright news from Lucy!

_Yours,_

_Cass._


	16. Chapter 16

20 February, 1831

Mansfield Parsonage

_Dear Jamie,_

Papa is in his study, resting from his sermon this morning; Mama is out for a constitutional (and, I think, a chance to escape Miss C), and Miss C Herself is napping in her room—"Listening to sermons has always exhausted me," She said at dinner, trying to make it a joke. I thought the joke rather poor for a clergyman's table, and Papa put on his grave face, and even Mama couldn't say anything kind. So She laughed slightly at Her own wit, and retired upstairs immediately after dinner. So I am free to tell you all about my tea with Lucy and Mr. Fulke yesterday.

It was _most_ interesting! Mr. Fulke wasn't there at first. Lucy and I had a delightful chat for perhaps an hour. She carefully refrained from asking anything about our Guest, and I nobly contained myself and did not offer any information. Instead, we discussed Ideas. I passed on to her some of what you have told me is happening politically, and we talked at great length about Mrs. Heyrick. Lucy feels, as I do, that so noble a goal as the abolition of slavery ought not to be men's province only, but that any who are willing to take active part in it should be welcome. Really, as much as I admire Mr. Wilberforce, I cannot help wanting to shake him at such blind insistence on women staying at home and tending their families, when there is such work to be done! I certainly would not advocate any married woman abandoning her family for social work, but when one is unmarried, or widowed and childless, as Mrs. Heyrick, I cannot see the harm in it. _Why_ is it unwomanly to care about other human beings?

We were becoming quite heated on the topic when Mr. Fulke stepped through the open window (Lucy is a great believer in fresh air, and yesterday was quite fine, so we were in no danger of catching colds) and stood there laughing at us.

"And here I thought my sister was the only advocate for women's rights in this village," he said, shaking his head at us. "Lucy, have you corrupted Miss Bertram?"

"Not at all," I answered spiritedly. "I have long held that gender should not inhibit us in doing what is right." I will confess, Jamie, that I was more than mildly irritated at his mocking manner (though he is quite handsome when he laughs), but Lucy intervened on his behalf.

"Don't mind Colin, Cassandra," she said, looking reprovingly at her brother. "He believes as we do, though he does love to tease me about being unladylike in my beliefs."

"Indeed I do," declared Mr. Fulke, sitting down next to his sister and pouring himself a cup of tea. "Why, I would be quite lost without Lucy's sharp mind polishing my own. As a clergyman's daughter, Miss Bertram, I presume you are familiar with the Book of Proverbs?"

"Naturally," I answered.

"Then you know the verse about iron sharpening iron."

(That is Proverbs, chapter twenty-seven, verse seventeen, Jamie, if it seems unfamiliar to you.)

I couldn't resist teasing him slightly; he seemed so much better-natured than he ever had before, even on our errand of mercy all those weeks ago. "But that verse, my dear sir, refers to a man sharpening the countenance of a _friend_, not a sister or brother."

Here he looked so affectionately at Lucy that I quite longed for you, Jamie. "Lucy is the greatest friend I could ever wish, Miss Bertram." Was that not sweet? I declare, I was quite willing to forgive all his peculiarities and taciturn nature at that moment.

"I am quite envious," I confessed. "I have no brother, just cousins, though they are as dear to me as brothers could be." (You, of course, are dearer than Richard, but I could not say that to the Fulkes.)

Lucy, who is as modest a soul as I have ever met, blushed and changed the subject. "Where have you been hiding all morning, Colin? I've not seen anything of you since breakfast."

A bit of his old gloom shadowed Mr. Fulke's face, but he answered readily. "Walking, Lucy dear." He turned to me. "You see, Miss Bertram, whenever I am troubled in my mind, I turn to walking to clear my thoughts. I find the exercise, as well as the closeness to nature, most relieving."

"I am sorry to hear you are troubled, sir," I told him politely. "I hope the walk helped you sort your troubles out?"

"Not exactly," he said. "I am beginning to think there is only one way out of my difficulties, and that way I cannot take!" He forced himself to smile. "It is quite a dilemma, is it not, ladies?"

"Colin, I wish—" Lucy burst forth, as if she could not restrain herself a moment longer. I truly believe they forget my presence then, Jamie, for Mr. Fulke turned to her and took her hands in his.

"I know you would help if you could, Lucy, but this I cannot share with you, my better half. It is a matter of conscience, and no other person can advise me on that. It is between me and God."

Is it not odd? I was consumed with curiosity as to what he could mean, but he rose abruptly to his feet after that, bowed, and left us again.

Lucy apologized for him, and I sincerely assured her that I was not offended.

"I wish he would just talk to me," she said. "Even if I cannot help him, I am sure that it would comfort him for me simply to listen. But he does not wish to burden my conscience as his is burdened."

Really, there was nothing I could say to that! We turned the conversation to lighter matters, such as our spring wardrobes, and spoke no more of deep thoughts that day.

When I returned home, Miss C slyly asked me if I was _great friends_ with the curate. I wanted to tell her that I would not stoop so low as She, to befriend a girl simply to impress her brother, but I restrained myself, and calmly replied that Mr. Fulke and I had only exchanged a few words, but that he was a devoted brother, and as such must be my friend.

"For I must think well of anyone who thinks well of Lucy."

She laughed and pinched my cheek. "You funny, clever thing! I declare, you are so much your father's daughter. He was always saying clever things back when we were young."

As I have heard Papa declare several times that he highly dislikes impertinence disguised as wit, or the making of a thing sound different by fancy words, I was once again forced to doubt Her veracity.

Now She is trying to convince Mama to let Her choose my spring dresses, as She knows all the latest fashions. Thankfully, Mama told Her that I am old enough to decide for myself what I want, and that my Aunt de Lacey is always willing to tender advice, if necessary.

She winced at that. I begin to think Her jealous of Aunt de L!

At any rate, I am determined to keep my dresses simple this season. As Aunt de L says, it is better to know what works for one, rather than be led astray by the dictates of fashion. The styles of today may suit some women, such as Isabella and Thea, but they do not work at all for me. A dark blue dress for church, and a print pinafore dress with two different chemisettes to wear for everyday, added to what I already have, ought to take care of my needs quite nicely. And if I have need of a special gown at any point, there is my silk dress from Aunt de L, just _begging_ to be worn!

_Yours in fashion and politics,_

_Cass._


	17. Chapter 17

1 March, 1831

Mansfield Parsonage

_Dear Jamie,_

Have you heard the news? I am certain you have not, for we have barely had it from Aunt de Lacey ourselves but a day ago, and even if Aunt Bertram has written it to Richard, I doubt he could have received her letter yet, nor would he think it worthy of sharing.

Isabella is to be married in the autumn!

She and Aunt de L are staying at the Park (they would have stayed with us but that Miss C is occupying our only guest chamber. Mansfield Park has always felt like a home to Aunt de L, anyway, and Isabella always sniffs at our simple style) right now; as I said, they arrived yesterday, and Aunt de L immediately came down to tell Mama the news.

Isabella's fiancé is one Mr. Hale. He is, apparently, nearly twenty years older than Isabella (!), but supposedly very handsome, very rich, and exceedingly respectable. He met Isabella at a house part this winter, fell in love practically within a day, and proposed within a week.

Sir Frederick approves of the man, and though Aunt de L is terribly sorry to lose her protégée, she is delighted that Isabella will make such a good match. Isabella herself is odiously smug about the entire thing, even consoling with me on not having had any offers myself yet!

"Not to worry, Isabella, dear," I said sweetly. "This way I can be available to assist you with your brood of children in a few years!"

She paled at that—though Isabella dearly likes the _idea_ of being married, I fear she has not considered all the realities therein. Of course, she may simply be concerned about losing her exquisite figure!

Papa, of course, still thinks it highly improper to discuss children in mixed company, so he gave me his most disapproving look and I was silenced.

In truth, I am happy for Isabella, and I do hope she and the venerable Mr. Hale will have a mutually adoring marriage. I fear she loves his wealth more than she loves him, but that may very well change, and indeed, I believe often does. Far more women marry for security than love, and very few of them have unhappy lives because of it. Many of them have unhappy lives for other reasons, though!

I do not think I _shall_ marry, for I find it difficult to imagine a man who would accept me as I am, love or not, and I refuse to change for anyone.

In proof of my genuine happiness for Isabella, I offer this anecdote, which otherwise I would not mention. After Aunt de L and Isabella had walked back to the Park after tea, Miss C, who had looked her most spiteful all through their visit, smiled insincerely at Mama and said,

"How pleased Lady de Lacey—dear little Susan!—must be to have the girl so securely settled! It must have been a very great burden on them to bear her social stigma. And how delightful that she can marry such a _respectable_ man!"

Mama was speechless with outrage, and before I knew what was happening I found myself speaking out in defence of Isabella, of all things!

"Isabella Huston is a sweet girl, one whom any man, of any station, would be proud to have as a wife," I said sharply. "Surely she cannot be blamed for her unfortunate parentage. I know Aunt de Lacey and Sir Frederick have always looked upon her quite as a daughter, and will miss her dreadfully when she is gone."

Miss C laughed, but it sounded shrill. "Dear me, such a fiery temper to go with that red hair! Fanny, where does she get it? You and Edmund both are such calm souls; sometimes I find it hard to believe Cassandra can truly be your daughter." She looked at me and smirked. "You remind me of me, when I was your age, my dear. I too spoke passionately for the things in which I believed. I never saw the purpose in propriety when one's heart was at stake!" She rose and patted my cheek. "You could _almost_ be my daughter, my dear."

I am uncertain who was more outraged at this—me, at the idea that I could be _anything_ like Her; Mama, at the reminder that Miss C had _almost_ married Papa; or Papa, at the thought that his daughter could ever behave with the same type of impropriety as Miss C.

He called me into his study later and read me a very solemn and loving lecture about the importance of guarding my tongue and not speaking without thinking. I promised him most sincerely that I would attempt to curb my behaviour (as I truly do not wish to be anything like Miss C), and we parted with mutual good will.

I still cannot be sorry that I spoke up in Isabella's defence, though! And, upon reflection, I do not think Papa was ashamed of me for that, either, for in his lecture he did commend me for my "warm heart" and "true impulses"—merely warning me that sometimes it is better to hold one's tongue than say everything that is in one's mind.

Meanwhile, Aunt Bertram, Aunt de L, and Mama are all quite involved in planning Isabella's trousseau and deciding on the wedding party. Thea and I shall be bridesmaids, of course, as well as some of Isabella's most intimate friends from the house party where she met Mr. Hale. Aunt Bertram wants us all to wear white, as is customary, but Isabella insists on the bridesmaids' dresses being accented with another colour so that she, in all white, will stand out more. Aunt B thinks this is a scandalous departure from tradition, but I rather hope Isabella wins the point, as I look like a ghost in all white.

Of course our gowns will be the height of fashion, so I shall look ridiculous regardless of the colour!

Aunt de L is planning the wedding breakfast, and my poor dear Mama is trying to not be horrified at the wicked expense of all of it. Sir Frederick can afford it, I daresay, but it seems to me, as well as Mama, that the money could be better spent elsewhere! No matter, Isabella is the closest thing they have to a daughter, and if they wish to lavish her with every good thing, I have no business complaining.

At least, if I remain unwed, I shall never waste money in such a fashion.

I am happy to say that in all this bustle, Miss C is practically a nonentity. She, of course, keeps trying to interfere and offer Her opinion, but Aunt de L is past mistress of the art of snubbing a person without being actually rude, and so Miss C is left quite in the cold!

I fear my letters will be filled with wedding details for quite some time, Jamie; I do hope your masculine mind will not find it unbearable. This is what comes of having a female correspondent, so you shall just have to make the best of it!

_Yours,_

_Cass._


	18. Chapter 18

13 March, 1831

Mansfield Parsonage

_Dear Jamie,_

Aunt Yates and Thea arrived at the Park this past week, all eager to assist with wedding preparation. Considering the wedding will not be until September, I am amazed at how much preparation seems to be needed already, but as this is the first wedding of the younger generation, I suppose they must have their fun.

Aunt Maria, of course, does her best to put a damper on everything by creeping about and warning Isabella in low tones of the dangers in marrying a man she does not truly fancy. Judging by the bit of advice I accidentally overheard, Aunt M's advice seems to me to be more along the lines of Isabella had best snag a rich _young_ man instead of a rich old man, which does not seem particularly helpful, but I am pleased to report that Isabella has responded with more spirit than I would have expected. She told Aunt M that she plans to be quite happy with Mr. Hale, and she does not care one whit for his age.

I fear she would not be so disinterestedly faithful to him did he lose all his money, but—there! I will not be unkind. No doubt she truly does feel some warmth toward him, and after all, why shouldn't she marry him for his money and position? Most girls do, you know! Only the very rich or the very poor can afford to marry for love. And while Isabella receives a most generous allowance from Sir Frederick, she cannot inherit from him, and the stain of her birth has made her less than appealing to the young men she has always fancied in the past.

Miss C tries to offer her opinion on everything, but Aunt de L keeps snubbing her. It is most delightful to watch.

I did manage to slip away a few days ago to have tea with Lucy. I have seen so very little of her since my aunt and Isabella arrived, and I'm afraid that I had no more patience for discussing ribbons and bonnets with Thea and Isabella. I needed to talk to someone with a bit of sense!

Lucy was very pleased to see me. Mr. Fulke has been moodier than usual lately, and Lucy is growing seriously troubled for him. I believe she has started to suspect what his particular worry is, but she would not give me even a hint out of loyalty.

I admire her for that, but I am really growing quite wild to know what could be burdening his conscience so! I cannot believe he has _done_ anything wicked. Perhaps someone confessed a crime to him and he is wondering whether or not to turn that someone in. Such a thing would bother me, I know, especially if the criminal was poor, starving, and desperate—not really bad.

I while away my leisure hours spinning tales to myself of the solution to Mr. Fulke's mystery, but deep inside I know all my speculations are nonsense. Whatever is troubling him is something very grace, and honestly, at times I am ashamed of my rampant curiosity over such a personal matter.

When not discussing Mr. Fulke, Lucy and I had a delightful talk. We veered away from politics into theology—since politics is my particular interest, I feel it is only fair to indulge hers sometimes, which is theology. She has some views which Papa might feel heretical, but I found challenging and refreshing. She is quite sceptical about many of our church rituals, and why we do them—is it simply because it is tradition, or is it because it helps bring one closer to God?

Now, you know Mama and Papa are firm believers in keeping up all the old traditions, because they feel the church will fall into ruin without them. Lucy says that if a person's faith is not strong enough to stand apart from ritual and tradition, it is not true faith at all, and we would have a more _honest_ church if we did away with all the pointless frippery.

And then we discussed St. Paul and his views on women, and whether or not they have been properly interpreted, or if the church leaders have misused his words in order to "keep women in their place."

I came away quite stimulated, only to find Isabella in a rage because they had wanted to match ribbon to my hair and I wasn't there!

It is interesting, the difference between people, isn't it, Jamie dear?

_Yours,_

_Cass._


	19. Chapter 19

21 March, 1831

Mansfield Parsonage

_Dear Jamie,_

Aunt de L and Isabella have finally returned home, as have Thea and Aunt Yates. Life has returned to its usual calm ebb here, with only a few exceptions.

The first: it appears I am to attend the Easter Ball after all! Aunt de L told Mama it was ridiculous to expect me to wait until next year; she did not give me that silk dress to wither away from disuse (I do not think silk _withers_, but my aunt's point was excellent). Mama agreed that I have shown remarkable signs of maturing this year (I was not eavesdropping; they said all this in front of me), and that she would speak to Papa. For all that Aunt de L is younger than Mama, her decisive nature and quick wit tend to make her the dominant sister. With Mama pleading for me, Papa could hardly hold out against it, and so I am to go.

Now that this grand privilege has been accorded me, I hardly know whether or not to rejoice! Yes, I wished to attend, but that was only in fancy. I am a terrible dancer, and even Aunt de L's silk dress cannot overcome my natural clumsiness. Besides, one is expected to make appropriate small talk at balls, and you know how terrible I am at that.

Still, I spoke to Lucy yesterday after the service, and she said that she will be attending, so at least I will have a friend. She also mentioned that she loves to dance and would be happy to help me prepare. Easter falls on April 3 this year; the ball is the Friday after it. Surely that is enough time to at least learn how to not tread on my partner's toes?

Miss C offered herself as chaperone for me at once, but Mama said that as she and Papa will be attending, they have no need for an extra chaperone. Miss C was disconcerted only for a moment, mentioning in her next breath how charming she found country balls, and how she would like to attend to see all the "quaint customs." So I suppose we shall have to endure her presence, but hopefully she will not behave in a manner to bring a blush to Mama's cheek.

My other bit of news is this: yesterday Mr. Fulke actually preached! Papa has a dreadful cold that has settled in his throat (he will go walking without taking adequate measures to protect against the wind), and he sent Mr. Fulke a note on Friday saying that he, Mr. Fulke, _must_ preach, or they would have to cancel the service.

Our manservant claimed to be too busy to carry the note to the Fulkes' house (I suspect he has had a quarrel with their girl), so I offered to take it. Lucy was not at home, so I delivered the note straight to Mr. Fulke without any preliminary pleasantries or distractions.

His eyebrows came together quite fiercely as he read the note, yet he did not look angry so much as deeply disturbed. He was silent for a good five minutes after, and I waited patiently, not wishing to disturb his ruminations. Finally, he said,

"Very well. Tell your father I shall obey his wishes in this matter, though I do so against my conscience."

I cannot understand why a curate's conscience should speak against preaching, but I agreed to tell Papa his message.

"And please pass on my best regards and wishes for a swift recovery," he added, as though aware of the rudeness of his abrupt statement.

"That I shall do with pleasure," I answered.

"Miss Bertram," he said as I started to leave, "I fear I have not always been as polite to you as I ought. Please accept my apologies. You have been a very good friend to my sister, and I am grateful to you for helping to ease her loneliness."

"No thanks are needed," I said truthfully. "I value Lucy's friendship deeply. As for your behaviour—I am simply sorry that you are so troubled. I wish there was something I could do to help."

And I meant that, too, Jamie, and not just for Lucy's sake. Despite his odd ways, I rather like Mr. Fulke, as one would like an abused dog who snaps at everyone. The dog is not at fault, and I do not believe Mr. Fulke is, either. Something worries him dreadfully, giving him no peace, and causing him to be as miserable as a dog who has been continually beaten until it expects only wrongful treatment from all humanity.

He looked at me rather oddly. "I believe you are sincere."

I _think_ my chin tilted up at that. "I have many faults, Mr. Fulke, of that I am well aware, but insincerity has never been one of them. Indeed, my difficulties tend to lie in an opposite direction."

He smiled at that. "Forgive me, I did not mean to cast doubt on your nature. I wish you _could_ help me, Miss Bertram. I believe you are one who would be a friend in the face of all adversity."

Now, wasn't that a nice thing to say? I was really quite touched. "I would like to consider you a friend, Mr. Fulke," I told him. "Even if you cannot confide in me."

"Can one be a friend while concealing secrets?" he asked, but a touch of whimsy lightened his dark words.

"All people keep secrets," I answered. "You are merely more open about being secretive than most."

I did not mean to be humorous, Jamie, but looking back I can see how my words might have been amusing. At any rate, Mr. Fulke found them so, for he threw back his head and laughed openly.

"You are as honest as you claim, Miss Bertram, and that is a rare and enviable trait," he said. "Very well. Shall we be friends?"

I couldn't help but smile at him. "Indeed, I believe we shall," I said cheerfully.

We shook hands on it, a proceeding that amused both of us, and parted with mutual goodwill. I carried his message to Papa, who shook his head over the latter part. _He_ cannot understand Mr. Fulke's reluctance to lead a service, either. Mr. Fulke refuses to confide in anyone, even his vicar.

At any rate, he did preach, and he did a lovely job of it. Oh Jamie, I cannot understand his refusal to preach when he is so obviously suited to it! Very rarely have I heard a sermon given with such passion and conviction. He spoke on love—God's love for us, and I came away so moved. I truly do not love God as I ought, when He has loved us so much to do for us all that He has done and continues to do.

Even Miss C had nothing flighty to say after the service! If he can silence Her tongue, why does he not want to preach?

The mystery grows deeper, but I have promised to be his friend and so I will not pry, and I will stand by him regardless of whatever dark secret he hides.

I suspect I will be too busy preparing for the ball to write much between now and Easter, and I know you are busy enough with your studies that you will not mind a break from my chatter. In my next letter, I will regale you with tales from the ball!

_Yours,_

_Cass._


	20. Chapter 20

1 April, 1831

Mansfield Parsonage

_Dear Jamie,_

Just a short note today—Aunt Bertram just informed us that Richard is coming home for Easter. I wish you were coming, too! I suppose you will be going to Grandmother Price's instead—you mentioned nothing about your holiday in your letters, which usually means you are going there and feel guilty. Therefore I will refrain from complaining about how long it has been since Christmas, and will merely ask you to pass on Easter greetings to our grandparents.

I do wish you could be here for the ball, though! Even with my dance lessons from Lucy I am hopelessly clumsy. I just know I shall step on and tear my beautiful gown. At least if you were coming I could plan on sitting out one or two of the dances and talking with you. As it is, sitting out a dance means that no one will have asked me, and while at least my frock won't get torn, how utterly humiliating that would be!

I said I would not make you feel guilty, and here I am doing that very thing. Forgive me, Jamie dear, and have a lovely holiday with our grandparents.

_Yours,_

_Cass._


	21. Chapter 21

9 April, 1831

Mansfield Parsonage

_Dear Jamie,_

It is the day after the ball, and I am in my chamber with strict instructions to rest. Mama is always greatly fatigued after a ball, and she does not want my health to be impaired. However, I am not the least bit sleepy, and writing to you is more restful than attempting to sleep when I would much rather be outside enjoying the fresh air, or talking last night over with Lucy.

Besides, I have so very much to tell you! This will be a long, detailed letter, so brace yourself, Jamie.

Everyone from Mansfield Park and Parsonage, except Aunt M, of course, attended the ball, and Sir Thomas even included Lucy and Mr. Fulke as part of the family party, insisting on conveying them with us in his carriages. I will spare you the details of our dress, merely stating that I was in my silver-green silk, Mama in dove grey, Aunt B in powder blue, and Lucy looking perfectly beautiful in a rose-coloured satin. Oh! Miss C wore crimson, shockingly inappropriate for a woman of her age.

Richard gallantly asked Lucy for the first dance, and while I was dreading waiting for a partner, Mr. Fulke came to my rescue and asked me! I warned him that I am a dreadful dancer, but he merely smiled.

"I know," he said, quite cheekily. "I watched some of your practices with Lucy."

"Why!" I gasped. "We thought we were alone in the house."

"Oftentimes I would hide in my study and watch," he confessed. "I know it was terrible of me, but I couldn't resist. The gales of laughter coming from the parlour were too delightful."

Lucy and I _had_ spent more time laughing at my mistakes than actually dancing!

Mr. Fulke himself is a marvellous dancer—light and graceful on his feet—and while dancing with him I didn't feel anywhere near as clumsy as I normally do. I acquitted myself admirably through that first dance, and then Richard spoiled it all by coming to do his duty by me and criticizing my every step, so that of course I stumbled worse than ever.

"Good lord, Cass, how does a woman get to be seventeen years of age and not know how to dance?" he asked me in disgust.

"I don't know," I snapped back at him. "How does a young man reach twenty-one years of age and not know how to speak politely to his cousin?"

We glared at each other for a few moments and then burst into laughter. However irritating Richard is, he is always willing to laugh at himself (and everyone else).

Despite Richard making me look like even worse of a dancer than I truly am, I did not lack for partners. Papa even danced with me once, which made me feel like I was five years old—but in a good way. He even got a bit misty-eyed toward the end, telling me how proud he was of me, and how I had grown up to be such a lovely young woman.

Sir Thomas also paid me a compliment, telling me how "dashed nice" I looked, but he spoiled it by immediately following up with, "Remarkable! Quite remarkable!" He kept saying how remarkable it was until Aunt B jabbed him in the ribs with her fan.

She told me I looked quite nice, as well, and then asked in an agitated whisper if my gloves were fresh. I assured her that Mama would never let me leave the house with dingy gloves, and she retired, reassured.

Miss C spent the evening flirting with all the men, married or not, while we Bertrams tried to pretend we didn't know her. Even Richard finds her abominable, asking when Papa and Mama were going to tell her to leave.

"I fear they never will," I answered mournfully. "Papa is too kind, and Mama too gentle. I am afraid She is here until She decides to leave."

He frowned terribly, but was distracted a moment later by a charming young thing fluttering her eyelashes at him.

Miss Cooke was there, but despite Aunt B's best efforts, Richard only danced once with her. He danced three times with Lucy, however!

Lucy was one of the most popular ladies at the ball, I am proud to say. Her sweet nature and lovely face make her quite sought-after, and her exquisite dancing only helps. During one of the few dances I sat out, I watched her fly about the room like a butterfly and wished I could be so effortlessly graceful—or even that graceful with an effort!

I must have sighed, for the next thing I knew, Mr. Fulke was at my elbow, inquiring if anything ailed me. I did not know how to tell him my thoughts without sounding petty, so I smiled and said no, nothing at all.

"Now then, Miss Bertram," he scolded me lightly, "I thought we agreed to always speak truth to each other?"

Though he spoke jestingly, I felt a pang at my cowardly attempt to equivocate, so I spoke up boldly. "The truth is, Mr. Fulke, that I dearly wish I could be more like your sister. She is both good and beautiful, and I, alas, am neither."

"Lucy is a rare gem," he agreed, "but I do not think you give yourself enough credit, Miss Bertram."

"Now who is being insincere?" I challenged him.

His eyes were perfectly serious as he answered, "I assure you, I am quite sincere."

He vanished into the crowd then, leaving me puzzled. Did he mean that I am more _good_ than I thought, or more beautiful? Either idea seems nonsense to me!

Unfortunately, Miss C happened to be standing nearby when we were talking, and now she tapped me with her fan.

"You sly minx!" she laughed. "I knew you had a _tendresse_ for the curate. He is quite handsome, isn't he?"

"Mr. Fulke is my friend," I answered impatiently, annoyed to feel a blush rising to my cheeks. "Nothing more. I am only seventeen, Miss Crawford, hardly old enough to think of marriage."

"Marriage, perhaps, but little flirtations can start at any age!" she said.

I gave her my best imitation of Aunt de L's icy glare. "I do not approve of flirting," I said coldly, and walked away in a rage.

It is most unfair. I have so been enjoying Mr. Fulke's friendship, but now I am all worried. What if others besides Her think we are flirting? I know all too well how quickly rumours can begin in a place like this, and how seriously they can damage one's reputation. I care very little for my own reputation, but I do care for Papa's—and for Mr. Fulke's, when it comes down to it. Now I don't know how to act around him—should I behave as though we are still friends, or would it be more proper to step back and be merely civil?

And why is it so unreasonable that men and women should be friends, without the bother of romance and intrigue? Why does everyone assume that there cannot be genuine, disinterested friendship between the genders? If Lucy and I can be friends, there is no natural, logical reason why her brother and I cannot—and yet people assume that there must be something more to it.

And, most infuriating of all, I even find myself wondering if Mr. Fulke intends more than friendship, with his enigmatic compliment! If even _I_ cannot tell if our friendship is disinterested, how can I expect the rest of the world to see it so?

Perhaps I simply have not received enough compliments in my life to take one at face value.

Back to the ball—despite my outrage at Miss C, as long as I avoided her I managed to enjoy the rest of my night. Mr Fulke did not come near me again until it was time to go home and we were simply part of the crowd, so I did not have to fret over the meaning behind his words.

Richard sat out one dance with me, to my astonishment. Then he started discussing Lucy, and I realized he had an ulterior motive. He raved about her "alabaster brow" and "raven locks" and "sea-green eyes." (Lucy does have unusual-coloured eyes—sea-green is perhaps the best way to describe them, though I would have likened them more to a moss-green.) He said she "had the most perfect, dainty figure he'd ever seen in a woman, and how does someone like that come to be free? She _is_ free, is she not, Cass?"

I told him that to my knowledge, Lucy was unspoken for, but I very much doubted she would ever consider leaving her brother.

"Nonsense!" Richard laughed. "Don't tell me any woman wouldn't abandon her nearest and dearest for a chance to get married! Besides, as Lady of Mansfield Park she would still be close to her brother."

He had not intended to speak so bluntly, for he suddenly turned dark red and threatened to cut off my hair if I repeated his words to anyone.

I tartly reminded him that I was not given to gossip, and he was far more likely to let people know he was considering matrimony than I was, for he is perfectly incapable of keeping a secret!

"I'm not really ready to marry," he said, looking alarmed. "Dash it, I've got my whole life ahead of me. I have no intention of burdening myself with a wife yet, no matter how pretty she is." He gave his infamous sideways smile. "If I were to consider it, however, Miss Fulke would be the one."

I did not hesitate to tell him that Lucy is far too good for the likes of him; if all he can see in her is her beauty, he is missing what makes her so special: her clever mind, her sweet spirit, her good heart …

He laughed and tweaked my nose as if I was ten years old again!

(By the way, I do not fear for my hair in relating this to you, for Richard knows I tell you everything, and he trusts your discretion far more than his own.)

Aside from all these interesting conversations, the ball was about as I had expected: many girls giggling and acting quite silly; many men responding in kind; many chaperones ignoring their charges in favour of the supper table; and much clumsy dancing on my part. Thankfully all the gentlemen with whom I danced (except Richard) were too polite to make comment on my dubious skills, but I noticed more than one limping after we finished.

It is a great burden to be born clumsy! No amount of training ever truly overcomes it. Thankfully I managed to avoid tearing my gown, though my gloves were in such a dreadful state by the time we got home I had to throw them out. That, of course, has nothing to do with clumsiness, but Aunt B always says she can tell who is a proper young lady and who is not by the state of her gloves.

I noticed that Lucy's were as pristine when we dropped her and Mr. Fulke off as they were when we picked them up!

I have had the most marvellous thought, Jamie. If only _you_ could fall in love with Lucy, and she with you! You would be sure to appreciate her beyond her appearance, and she would be just the one to encourage you and draw you out of your shell. You two would suit each other far more than Richard and Lucy ever could, and I would not have to hate your wife!

Really, it is an ideal situation.

You know I am teasing you, Jamie; I loathe those who are always "making matches." You may marry whomever you please, whenever you please, and I shall support you in it, even if she is a filthy fishwife you found on the docks!

Besides, I am in no hurry to lose my dearest friend—my dearest _female_ friend, that is—even to one as worthy as you.

Taking it all in, I am glad Aunt de L convinced Mama and Papa to let me go. It was an entertaining night, and aside from Miss C, enjoyable. However, I do not think I am in any danger of turning into a butterfly who flits from social engagement to social engagement. One ball in a season is plenty for me, thank you very much! I would much rather spend an evening in intelligent conversation—or, if that is impossible, in reading a good book by the fire, with a plate of scones and a cup of tea by my side.

Speaking of which, I believe I shall stop writing now and procure myself those very items. Staying up so late last night has made me exceedingly hungry today—what would Aunt B think!

_Yours, tiredly,_

_Cass._


	22. Chapter 22

18 April, 1831

Mansfield Parsonage

_Dear Jamie,_

I am feeling quite cross today, so I fear this will _not_ be a cheerful letter. That wretched Miss C! She has spoiled everything. I do so wish she would just leave, but it appears she plans to be here indefinitely, and Mama and Papa refuse to come right out and ask her to leave. "It would not be charitable," Mama says.

I don't notice Her making any attempts at charity!

Ever since the Easter Ball (which I now wish I'd never attended), She has been _teasing_ me about Mr. Fulke. She keeps asking about our "little flirtation," and reminding me to not let it go too far, as I can do far better for myself than "a mere curate."

(If I _were_ interested in Mr. Fulke, it would take far more than his curacy to discourage me, I can assure you! But that is beside the point.)

Papa usually ignores everything Miss C says (with good reason), but a few days ago, at dinner, her ill-mannered jests became too blatant even for him to disregard. He said nothing at the time, merely scowled thunderously, but he called me into his study afterward and demanded to know what I was thinking, allowing myself to be spoken of in such a manner.

I found this monstrously unfair, as Heaven knows it is impossible to force Miss C to behave properly!

I protested that I had done nothing wrong, and that Miss C was imagining things.

"There is no smoke without fire, Cassandra," Papa said portentously. "You and Mr. Fulke must have done _something_ to cause her to think you have an illicit romance."

I knew we had not, but _of course_ I remembered Mr. Fulke's compliment to me at the ball, and I blushed, which made Papa think there really was something at hand.

"Has he been paying you improper attentions?" he demanded.

"No!" I exclaimed. "He has never been anything but a gentleman toward me. He spoke kindly to me at the Easter ball, that is all, and Miss Crawford heard it and twisted it around in her mind to mean something more. We are friends, Papa, just as Lucy and I are."

His gaze relaxed slightly, but he proceeded to read me a lecture about the importance of avoiding even the appearance of evil, and how a young girl cannot be too cautious of her reputation, and he ended with recommending I have as little as possible to do with Mr. Fulke.

I thought that was unfair as well, as only someone so warped as Miss C could find something improper in our friendship, and she would continue to think such things about us whether we ever said more than "Good Morning" to each other on Sundays or not!

Papa insisted, though, and I had no choice but to comply.

That would have been bad enough, except that apparently upon thinking it over, Papa decided that though I was innocent in the affair, Mr. Fulke might have behaved inappropriately, so he went to speak to him about it!

Thankfully I knew nothing of this until it was all over. Mama told me after Papa left that day to see Mr. Fulke. I was mortified—what would he think of me?—but it was too late. If I thought I could change his mind, I would have run after Papa and begged him not to embarrass both me and Mr. Fulke so, but you know Papa. Once he has made a decision, he is implacable, and he is always so certain he is right! In all fairness, I must add that he usually is, but he is only human, after all, and even near-perfect people, like Papa and Mama, make mistakes occasionally. Thinking Mr. Fulke had any intentions toward me beyond friendship was one of Papa's.

Mama sympathized with me, though I could tell that in her heart of heart she was on Papa's side, and she and I paced in the garden for hours until Papa returned. Miss C _attempted_ to join us, but I deflected her by discussing some of our poorer parishioners with Mama. Miss C loathes anything resembling church matters, so she quickly made her excuses and left us to ourselves.

When Papa finally returned, he looked … how can I describe him? not angry—well, perhaps just slightly. Not fully worried, but concerned. Overall, I think, he just looked dazed. And … sad, I think. Yes, decidedly sorrowful.

I couldn't imagine what had taken so long, and what Mr. Fulke had said that would cause Papa to look so odd. For one _wild_ moment (and I would confess this to no one but you, Jamie, because of course it is ridiculous), I actually thought that perhaps Mr. Fulke _did_ care for me, and had confessed the same to Papa.

Mama had to ask Papa how the interview went; my throat had closed up in a most unusual manner. Papa merely shook his head and went into the house. Mama and I exchanged puzzled glances and followed in time to see him enter his study and close the door. I wanted to follow, but Mama shook her head and went in herself.

I desperately wanted to listen at the door, but I knew it would be dishonourable and terribly ill-bred—and knowing my luck, a servant would come along just as I applied my ear to the crack. So back outside to the garden I went, to pace some more.

That all was two days ago. When Mama came out of Papa's study that evening, she had the same grieved look on her face that he did, and _she_ wouldn't say anything either!

Yesterday I dared ask if I could visit Lucy, and Papa told me no. I asked if he would tell me what was happening, and he said he couldn't yet, but he acquitted me of all wrongdoing in my manner toward Mr. Fulke; he believed that neither of us meant to give the appearance of impropriety.

That was a relief, certainly, but then why won't he let me see Lucy? And what is so mysterious and dreadful that neither he nor Mama can speak of it? Does it have to do with Mr. Fulke's conscience-weighing secret? He won't speak of that to Lucy any more than Mama and Papa will speak to me.

I do hate being ignorant when other people know something. I feel so awkward and out-of-place. I also hate being forbidden to see my friend, when she is the only one to whom I could talk of all this!

Miss C, of course, is poking and prying into everything, but I am happy to say that Mama and Papa are as tight-lipped with her as they are with me.

Thank goodness I can write to you, Jamie, or I am certain I should burst with frustration!

_Yours, irritably,_

_Cass._


	23. Chapter 23

21 April, 1831

Mansfield Parsonage

_Dear Jamie,_

Worse and worse! Today Papa informed us at the dinner table that Mr. Fulke and Lucy would be leaving the country.

"For a visit?" I asked, thinking it was most unexpected.

Papa looked quite forbidding. "For good," he said.

I could hardly restrain a cry. "Why?" I stammered.

"I have dismissed Mr. Fulke from the church's service," Papa said, shockingly.

Mama did not look the least bit surprised, although she did appear sad. Before I could rally my scattered wits, Miss C _had_ to interfere.

"Edmund, really! No need to dismiss the poor boy just because he and Cassandra have let their hearts overcome their good sense. Must you be so heartless?"

_That_, of course, left me sputtering with outrage.

"This has nothing to do with Cassandra," Papa said gravely. "It concerns a private matter between Mr. Fulke and myself."

"I don't understand," I said. "What could have happened so suddenly to make you dismiss him? He is an excellent curate: he visits the elderly and infirm diligently; he cares for the poorer people; he is humble of spirit; he has a godly heart; he is an excellent preacher when he consent to preach …" I could have gone on, but then I saw Her smirking at me in pretended sympathy and I choked up with rage again.

"I do not deny any of that, Cass," Papa said. "I did not want to dismiss him, you may be sure of that. In many ways he is the best curate I ever had."

"Then why?"

Papa hesitated. "I loathe unnecessary mystery," he said finally. "Were it up to me, I would tell all, but Mr. Fulke has asked me to keep silent on this matter, and though I disapprove, I will respect him in this, as I can no longer respect him in …"

"Edmund!" Mama spoke up quickly. She turned to me. "Cass, when your father spoke to Mr. Fulke a few days ago, Mr. Fulke told him something that left your father with no choice but to dismiss him." She looked at Papa. "I know you are sorely disappointed in Mr. Fulke, Edmund, but I really don't think you ought to say anything more."

It is so rare for Mama to chastise anyone, no matter how gentle, that we always heed her words.

"You are right, Fanny," Papa said. "I cannot speak of Mr. Fulke without letting my anger show, so it is best if I simply do not speak of him at all."

I flung my napkin down on the table with what Mama would call "unnecessary force." "What could Mr. Fulke have possibly done that is so dreadful? It can be nothing criminal, or Papa would have had him arrested instead of simply dismissing him." For a moment I wondered if he had a more sordid secret—a natural daughter back in Scotland, a ruined woman in his past—but I dismissed the notion instantly. Young men often do foolish things, but I refuse to believe that Mr. Fulke could have behaved shabbily by any woman, no matter how long ago in his past.

"I hate all this secrecy," I continued. "I've a good mind to go over and _demand_ Mr. Fulke tell all."

"You shall not do that, Cass," Papa said gravely. "I do not want you visiting Mr. Fulke anymore."

"Papa!" I flinched at his words, knowing how Miss C would misconstrue them. "I do not visit Mr Fulke; I visit Lucy."

"I do not want you visiting her, either."

"What?" I could not believe my ears. Whatever Mr. Fulke had done, surely Lucy was innocent. Papa could not truly mean to separate me from my only female friend.

"Furthermore," Papa continued, "I forbid you to write to her after they leave, as well."

"Papa!" I looked at Mama for help, and she rose to the occasion.

"Edmund, don't you think that is slightly harsh? Miss Fulke has done nothing wrong."

Papa shook his head. "I am sorry, Fanny, and sorry for you, Cassandra, but I cannot take the chance. I do not want you having anything to do with either of the Fulkes."

"May I at least tell Lucy why I cannot write to her?" I asked helplessly, for I knew Papa would not bend on this. "If you do not want me at their cottage, I can ask her to come here to say farewell, or at least send a note of explanation."

"I already told Mr. Fulke that you would not be permitted to have contact with either him or his sister." Papa rose to his feet. "I am sorry, Cass. It is for the best."

He left the room. I saw Miss C open her mouth, and I suddenly felt I could not bear it if she spoke one word to me. I mumbled an excuse and rushed out into the garden.

Mama followed me in a few minutes.

"Do not think too harshly of your father, Cass darling," she said gently. "He is only doing what he feels best to protect you."

"Protect me from what?" I asked. "I cannot think Lucy is a danger to me—and I still do not think Mr. Fulke would do anything wrong by me, no matter what his dreadful secret is!"

"It is … complicated," Mama said. "Mr. Fulke might not intentionally harm you, but … oh dear, I dare not say anymore. As for Miss Fulke, your Papa remembers how," she glanced around to make sure Miss C was nowhere in earshot, "Mr. Crawford used his sister's letters to me to try to persuade me to marry him. He knows all too well how a devoted sister, even when she is well-meaning, can be a danger to an innocent mind."

"I just wish I understood," I said.

"And I wish I could tell you, but as Papa said, we must honour Mr. Fulke's wishes in this, even when we disagree with them."

There being no real reply I could make to this, I said nothing. Mama left me to myself after a bit, and after sulking in the garden a while longer, I finally came up to my room to write to you.

He _must_ have done something dreadful but not criminal in his past. However much I hate to believe it, I can think of no other explanation. I am quite ignorant about Scottish customs. Do they allow duelling there? Perhaps he fought a duel with a man and killed him.

Maybe, in a moment of foolish compassion, he married a woman of ill repute. I could see him doing something stupid and chivalrous like that, if she told him a plausible story and made him feel sorry for her. He would have left her in Scotland, of course, but Papa would still consider it scandalous.

He _never_ ruined anyone. I will not believe it.

I am quite miserable, Jamie. Not only am I losing Lucy, but …

I am not in love with Mr. Fulke. But the thought of never seeing him again makes me thoroughly unhappy.

I would like to _slap_ Miss C. If only she hadn't started teasing about Mr. Fulke, none of this would have happened! Papa would not have visited him to inquire about his intentions, and Mr. Fulke would not have confessed … whatever it is he confessed.

This has been a miserable, miserable day.

_Yours,_

_Cass._


End file.
